The Flawed Ruby
by mille libri
Summary: As Champion of Kirkwall, Lucas Hawke finds the demands on his time, sword, and purse can be oppressive ... but the treasure he's found more than compensates.
1. Unique

_My 25th story! This is inspired by the work of Oleander's One and Enaid Aderyn, both of whom are adept at light, funny dialogue. I can only hope to come close to their skill level. There may be more to Lucas and Isabela's story in further one-shots, depending on how the muse strikes. Many thanks to my wonderful beta, WellspringCD!_

* * *

"You know," Isabela purred, draping herself over Lucas Hawke's shoulder, "you don't have to read this dreadful correspondence right now. Matter of fact, I'm sure you did it yesterday."

"That was two weeks ago," Lucas said, dropping a kiss on the busy fingers that were trying to dip beneath his shirt collar.

"Time flies when you're killing things." Isabela reluctantly unwound herself, moving to the looking glass hanging near the door of Hawke's study and adjusting her hat.

Lucas watched her, enjoying the movement of her rear under her short tunic. The hat, a small black top hat that perched with careful precariousness on the side of Isabela's head, was one of his favorites.

"If you don't start, you'll never finish, and remember you promised me a new hat if this took more than an hour."

"So I did." Of course, he'd be happy to buy her one anyway, knowing she'd be likely to come to bed tonight wearing nothing but the new hat. But he dutifully plucked the first letter from the stack of mail. "An invitation to join the Society for the Prevention of the Advancement of the Indigent of Darktown. I think not."

"Stuck-up prigs," Isabela commented, leaning toward the mirror with her teeth bared to see if something was stuck in them. "Like to see any of those fancy nobles last ten minutes in the Undercity."

"Mm," Hawke said, agreeing with her. He lifted the next sheet, a closely written scrawl that he had to squint to read. "Another copy of the _Manifesto_. Anders's writing is getting smaller." Isabela didn't respond to that one; there was little to say about the mage's continued descent into obsession. Hawke tossed the page over the left arm of his chair in the system he had created and Bodahn lived with long-sufferingly. Pile on the left, burn; pile on the right, keep. "Oh, this one's interesting," he said, rereading the letter to make sure he wasn't misunderstanding. "Some merchant has imported a thousand extra nugs, and wants to know what I think of financing a nug farm outside Kirkwall."

Isabela giggled. "Imagine that poor man, surrounded by a thousand nugs."

Lucas laughed along with her. "The last thing we want is those overbreeders too close to Kirkwall."

"Tell him to send the shipment to Seheron. Maybe the Qunari would like them."

"What would a Qunari do with a nug? Cook it?"

Isabela frowned, considering. "Too small. It'd be like a single bite to a Qunari, and it has too many bones for a proper amuse bouche." She grinned wickedly. "Maybe they'd find other uses for a little, round, warm nug."

Lucas was silent for a moment, imagining the possibilities, as Isabela's eyes twinkled naughtily at him. "Would a nug even fit?" he asked at last, refusing to give her the satisfaction of disturbing him with her suggestions.

"They're big men," Isabela said. "Be interesting to find out."

"You find out," Lucas said, shuddering. "Still, that would explain why they're so grumpy all the time."

"It would, wouldn't it?" She chuckled, moving away from the mirror to the mantelpiece.

"Isabela."

"What?"

"Put the snuffbox back."

"But you don't even take snuff." She pouted at him. "Please?"

"You don't take snuff, either. What are you going to do with it?"

"Sell it, of course."

"You know, I'd just _give_ you money if you asked."

"Where would be the fun in that? Besides, you can't join the Coterie's monthly Wicked Grace game unless you came by the coin dishonestly."

"So taking a snuffbox from a house you practically live in, with the owner's permission, counts as dishonest?" Lucas grinned at her.

She shrugged. "It's a grey area." Then, to distract him, "What's the next one say?"

"Invitation to dinner with Fifi de Launcet. I'd rather go live at the nug farm." He glossed over that one as quickly as he could, not wanting poor Fifi to wake up tomorrow and find her hair cut off, or her spoiled white Persian cat dyed orange. He loved Isabela's jealous streak, but she occasionally overdid it.

"Fifi de Launcet _is_ a nug," Isabela muttered.

Lucas didn't respond, staring at the next letter with a frown. "This is an elegantly written missive on expensive paper that asks me to come rescue Duchesse de la Fabreaux's kitten from an apple tree in her garden ... last week." He shuffled through the pile. "Oh, and three more on subsequent days. She doesn't have servants for that?"

"She does. An entire retinue of attractive young elven girls, any one of whom could easily climb a tree, but ... ahem ... that's not the feline they're hired to service."

"Isabela!"

The pirate smirked at him. "It's true."

"You could use better language."

"I didn't say the word. I just suggested it," she said primly, but her eyes were dancing. "Someday we're going to have to do something about what a prude you are."

Lucas doubted that; some attitudes were too deeply bred to be done away with. But it wasn't worth the argument, so he turned to the next letter as Isabela came over to perch on the side of his desk, her long tanned thigh carefully placed mere inches from his hand. He ignored her, with some effort, and focused on the parchment in his hand.

"Ooh, treasure map?"

"Yes. Of the Alienage. A young boy, to judge by the handwriting, thinks there's a treasure buried there." He couldn't help it—he put that one in the "keep" pile. Surely something could be done to make the boy's fantasy come true. Would the Seneschal approve of a midnight excavation to plant treasure, and then another to help the boy "find" it?

"You have that look."

"Which one?"

"The altruistic one." Isabela gave a dramatic sigh.

"I'm sorry, is there something wrong with being nice?"

"Well, it isn't half as much fun as being naughty." She slid off the edge of the desk and straddled his lap.

Lucas leaned back, giving her a fond smile. "You know I can't concentrate when you do that."

"That's the idea." She wiggled a little bit to make sure he wasn't missing anything.

"If I can't concentrate, I'll never finish," he murmured against her lips, which were suddenly very, very close to his.

"Let Bodahn do it."

"If I let Bodahn do it, he'll say yes to everything."

She shifted on the pile of papers, removing one from under her shapely bottom. "Even to the invitation to speak to the Kirkwall Gardening Society?"

"He'd have the nug farm half built already." Lucas grinned at her. "He might even make me go to dinner with Fifi de Launcet."

Hastily, Isabela removed herself from his lap. "Hurry up then. I'm bored of this; I want to do something fun!"

There were a few moments of silence while Lucas sifted through a couple of invitations to fancy dinner parties; the usual pleas for money to be given to various charities, both legitimate and not; and requests for assistance in endeavors ranging from repairing the fountain in the Hightown marketplace to assassinating the Black Divine. He shredded that one into small pieces before consigning the scraps directly to the fireplace. Leaving such a letter intact was dangerous for everyone involved. It was flattering that people assumed he had such a range of talents, but tiring as well, sorting the people who actually needed help out from the ones out to purchase cheap help with breaking the law.

Sighing, he picked up a fat envelope. The rich scent of sandalwood filled the air, and he glanced over at the chair where Isabela was lounging, her legs parted just far enough.

"Hm." He grinned, knowing what awaited him. Slitting open the envelope, he withdrew a packet of papers, skimming the first few lines. "I thought you wanted to go out. This reads more like you want to stay in."

"Maybe I want to do both."

"A little of the old in-and-out, eh? I could be convinced, if you tried hard." Sliding a small key out from under the blotter on his desk, he opened a drawer on the right-hand side, sliding the manuscript inside it. "I'll keep this and read it later."

"Have you kept all my friend fictions? And you said you were too embarrassed to read them." Isabela grinned at him, and Lucas flushed.

"I never said I read them."

"That blush says it all, lover." She got out of the chair and leaned over the desk, giving herself a good view of the contents of the drawer and Lucas an excellent view of her superb cleavage. "You shouldn't keep those first ones. I've gotten much better since then."

"I like them just the way they are."

"Ooh, what's this?" Before he could stop her, one browned hand had reached into the drawer and purloined the small box he kept there. She popped it open, and frowned down at the contents. Poking her finger amongst the shining stones, she said, "What are these for?"

"I find them here and there. Fragments of onyx, pieces of opals. I pick them up."

"Why?"

Lucas cleared his throat. "I don't know, do I need a reason?"

"I thought I was supposed to be the one attracted by shiny objects. But I take them to sell and make coin. You don't need more coin, and these wouldn't buy you much, anyway." She lifted a red gem, holding it up to the light. "This ruby isn't worth anything, flawed as it is."

"Perhaps it won't bring me any coin, but I kept it for a reason."

"What reason?"

Lucas stood up, putting his hands on her shoulders and turning her to face him. "They reminded me of you."

"Broken and worthless?" Her eyes met his, and he could see the vulnerability she tried to hide, buried deep behind the sarcasm and deflection.

"Unique. Each gem in that box has a certain flaw that sets it apart from all others of its kind."

"So you value me for my flaws?"

Lucas was no fool; he recognized the danger sign in the question. "I value you because there's no one else like you. And because you bring light and color into what might have been a very boring life. Because you saved me from having to marry someone like Fifi de Launcet and spend the rest of my days worrying about Kirkwall politics." He closed the space between them, kissing her.

At last she pulled back from the kiss. "Fancy words are all well and good, but how about you take me upstairs and put your mouth to even better uses?"

"As you please," he said. "I'll just put these away and be right up."

Isabela sauntered from the room, looking as contented as a cat with a saucer of cream. As Lucas closed the little box, he noticed that one of the stones was missing. Isabela had palmed the flawed ruby. A smile spread over his face and he hurried to catch up with her.


	2. Dark and Stormy

_Thanks so much for all the responses! I really appreciate the enthusiasm. Big Fan, your comment was anonymous so I couldn't respond directly, but I am seriously considering making this into a linear story. I haven't quite figured out where to go with it - I'd be happy to entertain any thoughts or suggestions. I hope all my readers along the northeast seacoast, and especially any in NYC, are safe and dry tonight.  
_

* * *

It was bloody cold in Kirkwall. Not for the first time, Isabela wondered why she stayed. She had her ship, her freedom, plenty of money to equip it and go, to be Siren of the Seas once again. She shivered in the chilly wind that whipped through Hightown as she made her way across the marketplace from the hat shop, where she had kept the milliners busy showing her the new stock until well after their usual closing time. She'd bought heavily, of course, having her purchases delivered to the Hanged Man, where they would join the rest of her collection.

A drizzle of rain struck her, and Isabela glared up at the sky. She turned her steps resolutely toward the shadowy alleys of the red light district. Reaching the Rose, she tugged at the familiar heavy door. Before too long she was seated with a cup of warm spiced rum in front of her. She sipped it, enjoying the rich flavor on her tongue and watching the usual bustle. The place was busy tonight; Isabela was far from the only person who had sought refuge here in the welcoming warmth. She was, however, one of the few who wasn't venturing even further into the more intimate welcoming warmth to be had in the arms of the employees. Looking around, she considered her options ... but she'd had them all. Their quirks had begun to pall, their skills to bore her. Nothing stirred in her at the thought of their hands and mouths on her body, and even the overheated room and the rum hadn't quite touched the chill at her core.

Leaving the rum half-finished, an offense she had rarely committed against such a fine beverage, Isabela left the Rose. She felt a certain relief as the door closed behind her and left her in the darkness of the alley. The back stairs that led down toward Lowtown were nearby, and she very nearly turned in that direction, heading for the raucous jollity of the Hanged Man and the unmade bed she paid for. There would be warmth there, hiding in the bottom of numerous bottles of questionable ale, glowing from the fireplaces, on offer from the various drinkers. Always sport to be had in the Hanged Man ... if she wanted it.

Another shiver wracked her, and she knew she didn't want to walk in this cold rain all the way down the slippery stairs only to find herself in a room full of greedy strangers.

And so at last she gave in to the impulse she hadn't wanted to name, turning in the opposite direction and skirting the shadows of Hightown to avoid the guard patrols. He'd made her a key, but she never used it; she was more comfortable getting in her own way. Carefully she jimmied open the casement, not wanting to leave any marks or make a sound that might waken Bodahn or Sandal, and climbed inside. Her boots were wet, and she took them off in order to keep from tracking dirt on the white carpet. Without them, she felt small and vulnerable, and for a moment she thought about putting them back on and leaving the way she had come in. But a gust of wind shook the panes of glass, the rain splattering against the window, and she shivered again. With her boots in one hand, she padded across the soft carpet, her feet sinking into it, and up the stairs.

Isabela would have known where she was blind-folded, as Hawke's deep snore rumbled from the room. She found it annoying, she told herself. Truly she did. But a smile tugged at her mouth all the same, hearing it, and she lost no time closing the door and shedding her clothes. The heat from the fire was crackling warm on her chilled skin as she crossed the room. She lifted the covers and slid into the warmth there. Hawke snorted loudly. He rolled over, reaching a heavy arm out. It closed around Isabela's body and tugged her closer against him, the heat of his body finding the chill that filled hers and chasing it far away.

"Mmm." He sighed in contentment, curling against her. His breathing slowed again as he returned to the depths of sleep.

Isabela was tempted to wiggle, to arouse him in more ways than one, to make the need that had brought her here the hedonistic drive that she was most comfortable with ... but she was drowsy, and warm, and at last, safe in the shelter of his bed, his body, and ... yes, his heart.

Warm at last, she surrendered to sleep.


	3. In the Beginning

_So here's the plan - I intend to do a full story out of this, and so this (chapter 3) is officially Chapter 1 of Lucas and Isabela's full-length story. But since I like the title and don't want to make you all have to reset your alerts, I'm keeping the same overall document. Chapter 1 takes place in Act 3, Chapter 2 in the three-year gap between Acts 2 and 3. Chapter 3 begins their story at the beginning of Act 2. (I'll either put notes when we reach Chapters 1 and 2 in the continuity, or I'll move the chapters.) If there are any Act 2 quests that you would like to see me include or scenes you particularly would like to read, please let me know. I happily take requests! My thanks to Oleander's One for her sharp betaing eye, her enthusiastic support, and not making fun of me when I confuse mansions with mattresses. :)_

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"Oh, sweetie, you are going to regret that."

"Just play your card."

"Are you sure? You want me to play this one?" Isabela held the card in question teasingly above the table. "Because you'll lose, and you wouldn't want that, would you?" She pouted softly, her lower lip full.

"I wouldn't be too sure, Rivaini. Hawke's got a few tricks of his own, you know."

"Oh, I could show him some tricks. I could show him things that would have him busting right out of that armor." Isabela's eyes glinted at Lucas across the card table.

He ignored her, playing his next card.

"So you're going to be that way about it, are you?" She played another one, drawing it seemingly at random from the middle of her hand.

"You say that to all the boys," Lucas pointed out mildly. He frowned at the table, then at his hand, and drew another card.

"But I always mean it." She glanced at a card, dropping it on the table, and grinned wickedly at Hawke. "I just mean it more where you're concerned. When are you going to let me make a man of you, Hawke?"

"What happened to 'once they see you naked with your ass in the air, they don't think they have to follow orders'?" Lucas looked up at her through the brown hair that had fallen into his eyes, his face perfectly serious.

Isabela's eyes warmed, and she leaned across the table, letting her cleavage bulge against the edge. "I'm not in charge around here, in case you can't tell."

"I was talking about me." He quirked an eyebrow, the faint shadow of a smile glimmering on his face as he dropped another card on the table. "I think being seen naked with my ass in the air would be bad for my image, don't you?"

Varric choked on his ale, nearly spitting it onto the table. Isabela laughed in delight ... until she took a good look at his card. "You bastard, you were stringing me along the whole time!"

"Guilty as charged, I'm afraid." Lucas grinned at her. "Pay up."

"In your dreams."

"Tsk, tsk, Isabela. No one likes a welsher."

"He's got you there, Rivaini."

"I'd rather he had me upstairs," Isabela grumbled. She dug a small pouch from her cleavage, shaking a few coins out of it. Cupping them in her hand, she reached across the table, ready to drop them onto Hawke's palm.

"Do you think I'm going to fall for that?" Lucas asked. "You shorted that by a good ten silvers."

Isabela narrowed her eyes, glaring at him. "Fine." She tucked the pouch back into her cleavage, taking a long swallow of her ale.

"The coin, Isabela."

"Right." She dug another pouch from the top of her boot, shaking the missing silvers out onto the table.

Merrill drifted over to their table. "Oh, Isabela, did Hawke beat you at cards again?"

Isabela pouted up at the elf. "He cheated. He taunted me with images of his naked ass."

"Hawke got undressed in the middle of the Hanged Man?" Merrill's eyes widened and she clapped a hand over her mouth, stifling a shocked giggle.

"I wish. He just teased me with the idea that he might. How's a person supposed to concentrate with that picture in their head?"

Merrill nodded, taking her hand off her mouth. "It's true; Hawke does have an attractive backside."

Lucas turned red, Varric raised both eyebrows and leaned forward eagerly, and Isabela guffawed. "You tell him, kitten."

"Wait, am I not supposed to have said that? It's true—Varric, don't you think so?" Merrill's eyes were huge in her face, and she looked from one to the other, stricken at the idea of having made another social gaffe.

"Yes, Varric, do tell. What do you think of Hawke's ass? You've got the view down there, got it right in front of you," Isabela drawled, sliding her wicked smile from Hawke to Varric and back again.

"Wouldn't know, Rivaini. What does a woman look for in a good ass, anyway?" Varric asked, unperturbed.

Lucas shoved his chair back from the table. "I think that's my cue to go."

"No, stay, Hawke. Don't you want to know why all the girls love your ass so much?"

"Not especially, no, but do tell Varric. I'm certain he needs the information for his next story." Hawke left the table, dropping several coins on Norah's tray and exchanging a few quiet words with the waitress on the way out. He was oblivious to the way Isabela's eyes clung to him as he left, but Varric didn't miss the pirate's distraction.

Lucas headed out across Lowtown, sticking his hands in his pockets and whistling a jaunty tune. By now, most people who accosted solo walkers in Lowtown knew who he was—and in Hightown and Darktown, too, for that matter, although less so on the docks—and left him alone. He glanced up at the sky, dark and sprinkled heavily with stars, wondering if it was late enough that his mother had gone to bed. He'd been optimistic that once they won the estate back and moved in she would stop waiting up for him, but so far nothing had changed. He would come in to find her nodding over her embroidery, she would wake with a start, and automatically her eyes would look past him for Bethany. And then her face would fall, her eyes filling with tears, and she would go sadly to bed with hardly a word for him.

It was enough to make a man not want to go home.

But he couldn't go back to the Hanged Man, either; Isabela's constant flirtation was too much. Varric's eyes on him all the time, watching hungrily for a new story, were too much. Poor Merrill's lost little looks were too much. It was all too much—he'd never asked to be anyone's hero. Certainly he hadn't been his brother's. Or his sister's. But somehow half of Kirkwall looked to him to get them out of every mess they landed in.

He turned his steps, slipping in the back door of another mansion.

"Hawke?"

"Yes. You open?"

"Come up; I have just uncorked the bottle."

He entered the ruined parlor, taking the glass Fenris held out to him, sinking into his accustomed chair. And the two of them ended the night as they ended so many, sipping fine vintages side by side and staring morosely into the flames.


	4. Back in Business

_Thanks so much to all those of you who have read and reviewed and favorited this story! I'm excited to delve into Lucas's particular version of Kirkwall. I'm always happy to hear constructive criticism or suggestions. Special thanks to Oleander's One for the quick turnaround and her keen editorial eye!_

* * *

Lucas picked up his boots, tiptoeing across the landing in his socks in hopes that he wouldn't wake his mother. She had been nodding in her chair over her sewing when he'd come in late the night before. Gently he'd awakened her and led her upstairs to her room, hoping she was tired enough to get a good night's sleep. He hadn't heard a peep outside his door yet this morning. Perhaps she was having a lie-in, resting for once.

He was halfway down the stairs before he saw her, sitting next to the window, looking out on Hightown. Her hands were folded empty in her lap; no sewing, no mending, no reading.

"Mother?"

"Ah, there you are, darling," she said, turning to him with a smile on her face. The shadows were still there under her eyes, but there was a brightness in her face that he hadn't seen in a long time. "I was just thinking about the three of you, playing together. You and Carver so strong, but Bethany could always get her way."

"Usually by going running to you or Father," Lucas agreed. He sat down on the bench next to her. He'd had his fill of wallowing in the grief, but somehow this seemed different.

"None of them would want me to spend the rest of my life grieving for them, would they? I finally realized that—and that I'm missing your life while I pine for theirs."

"Mother." He took her hand. It seemed so small there in his larger one.

"No, let me finish. I am so proud of you for all the hard work you've put into building a life here in Kirkwall, for earning the money to buy back this house, for taking such good care of all of us." She squeezed his hand. "And while I know we're both sad that your father and Carver and Bethany didn't live to enjoy it, we're still here, and it's time to stop acting like I died with them."

"It sounds so good to hear that," Lucas said.

"It feels good to say it." She glanced out the window. "You know, I used to sit here when I was a girl, wishing for my life to start. Waiting for something big to happen to take me away from all of this … and it did. In all our years in Ferelden, I never had time to sit and look out the window—I was always busy cooking or sewing or tending all your scrapes and bruises. But here I am, back in Kirkwall, waiting again."

"I didn't think you should have to work so hard anymore, Mother."

She smiled, patting his cheek. "I know. But I spent so much time as a peasant's wife; I can't just sit here. Bodahn does all the work, anyway. He organizes the servants and plans the meals. And you hardly need me to tend your bruises. I really should get busy trying to find someone who can."

"What?"

"You need a wife, my dear, if you're going to take your place in Kirkwall society. And perhaps, if you're going to rise to a position of power within Kirkwall."

"Mother, I—" But he cut himself off. She didn't need to know how unhappy he was living in splendor, or how often he dreamed of throwing it all over and joining a caravan as a nameless mercenary. This new peace and determination in her was so fragile, he didn't want to disturb it. He doubted she'd find him a woman he was interested in, anyway. "I think that's a fine idea, if it interests you. But surely there are more productive things you could do with your days."

"Such as? You sound like you have something specific in mind."

"We no longer live in Lowtown, but so many Fereldan refugees do. And not just them—all of Lowtown and Darktown are in squalor. We have the money to help alleviate their suffering and you have the experience to know where that money would be best applied. Maybe you could work with Lirene?"

A smile spread across his mother's face. "Darling, what a lovely idea. You have always had such a tender heart."

"One thing, though."

"What's that?"

"I want to hire you a bodyguard. Lowtown can be dangerous, especially—"

"No." Her firmness startled him.

"Why not?"

"I took care of myself in Lothering for many years. I helped run the farm, I dealt with the merchants. I am perfectly capable of keeping an eye out for dangerous situations—living with you has taught me that. And I will not flaunt my wealth by having a bodyguard tagging along behind me all the time." He started to protest, and she shook her head firmly. "No, Lucas, that's the end of the discussion. No bodyguard."

"Very well, Mother." He squeezed her hand again. "I'm late to meet Varric; he has some project in mind, no doubt. You know how he is."

"I do. Be careful, darling." The familiar worried words were lightened by the smile she turned on him.

He was just putting on a scarf to get ready to go down to Lowtown when the bell rang at the front door. When it opened seconds later, Lucas had to smile; only one person was that impatient.

"Ah, Hawke, there you are."

"Aveline." He tried to control the flutter in the pit of his stomach. Foolish. In all the years they'd known each other, Aveline had never shown any indication that she thought of him that way. Lucas knew she was still mourning her husband, but deep down part of him couldn't help wondering what would happen if he approached her. He'd never done so because he wasn't certain enough of his own feelings—if he spoke to Aveline, he would have to be sure. There would be no trifling with her affections.

"I know you're a noble-about-town now, but if someone had some work to throw your way?"

"I thought you disapproved of me."

"Of you? No. Of Varric, possibly. Of your methods, definitely."

"But you want me—and Varric—to use our disapproved methods to take a task off your hands?"

"Yes. That's about the size of it."

"All right, then. Who do we have to kill?" At her frown, Lucas grinned. "Metaphorically speaking, of course."

Aveline cast him a withering look, following him into the house and taking a seat near the fire. "It's that Templar, Emeric. He insists that every murdered or missing woman in this town has fallen victim to that monster who cut off Ninette's hand. Now, Kirkwall's a big city. Not every murder can possibly be connected."

"So what's he doing to annoy you so much?"

"Making himself a big pain in my ass, that's what. He went so far as to accuse a noble, Gascard duPuis, of being the killer. Emeric was so convincing about it that I agreed to raid duPuis' mansion. And found nothing. Not a thing. Do you have any idea how much ass I had to kiss after that fiasco? Not again, I can tell you that much." Her green eyes flashed angrily.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Talk to him. Look at his evidence. Figure out if he's got a point. If it goes somewhere real, and he can prove any of his accusations, I'll take it back off your plate."

"And if it doesn't?"

"Just shut him up. But preferably without causing an incident with the Chantry! They've put him out to pasture, but he's still one of theirs. No killing."

"Right. Okay if I maim him a little bit?" He grinned as she stood up, muttering under her breath. "Aveline. You can trust me."

She smiled at him over her shoulder. "I know that, Hawke. If I couldn't, you'd be in jail by now."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," he called, watching her as she stalked out of the room. What a woman; no neediness there. All fire and determination. What would it be like to have that directed his way? Perhaps it was time to think about that a bit more seriously.

The Hanged Man was quiet and redolent with the yeasty smell of a new batch of ale undergoing the brewing process. "Varric in?" Lucas asked Corff as he passed the bar.

"Yeah, he's up there. Where else would he be?"

Lucas smiled briefly to acknowledge the truth of that statement, proceeding up the stairs. He grazed his knuckles against the doorframe to announce his presence before pushing open the half-shut door. Varric was sitting there in his oversize chair—Lucas thought it looked like a throne, which was probably what Varric was going for—looking up at a scrawny man in Coterie armor. "You let me know if there are any more issues. Blondie's got enough to worry about. And for the Maker's sake, man, try to live up to your reputation! He knew you were there the other night and thought you were trying to rob him."

"Right. Sorry. We'll keep it on the down-low next time." The man took the pouch Varric handed him and took a peek inside it. He nodded briskly at Varric and pushed past Lucas to leave the room.

"More charity, Varric?"

"Charity? Me? I don't have a charitable bone in my body."

Lucas had to hand it to the dwarf; he'd never met anyone else who could lie so unblushingly. It was an open secret between them that Varric paid the Coterie very well to keep a surreptitious eye on Merrill, Anders, and Isabela. Which reminded Lucas … "Any chance you have some contacts who could be persuaded to keep a discreet eye on my mother?"

"Hawke, what do you take me for? I've had people looking out for her since the first time we shook hands."

"I should have known. You are a prince among dwarves."

"I know it." They grinned at each other. "Sounds like your mother's thinking of getting out more?"

Lucas nodded. "She seems to have had a change of heart—literally overnight. She wants something to do. I suggested she work with Lirene and the Fereldan refugees in Lowtown, but I don't want her down here alone. I suggested a bodyguard, but she was—"

"Stubborn? Imagine that, a stubborn Hawke."

"It's not stubbornness when you're always right." Lucas smirked, and Varric chuckled, waving to a nearby chair. He poured a cup of ale, which he slid across the table to Lucas.

"So, Hawke," Varric began after they'd both drained their first cup and refilled.

"Uh-oh. This can't be going anywhere good."

"Now, now, I'm just curious. You've been doing the noble thing for a few years. Anyone else, I'd think they might get complacent living the soft life … but not you. You must have plans. In fact, you must be bored shitless."

"You're not wrong." Lucas took a long swallow of ale and settled back in the chair, sighing. "I haven't been thinking too far ahead. Mostly I've been worried about Mother, trying to take care of her. But as for my own plans—I don't know. Mother wants to find me a nice wife. Although marriage might not be enough of a challenge to keep me entertained, I don't know."

Varric snorted. "Depends on who you marry. I can't say I ever saw you as the marrying kind."

"Hadn't given it much thought, really, but it's something to consider."

"In the meantime? What will you do 'til Mommy hogties you to the altar with some simpering young thing?"

"You paint such an appetizing portrait." Lucas chuckled, taking another swallow of ale. He hated to rise to Varric's bait, but he _was_ bored, and it sounded as though the dwarf had something in mind that might be diverting. "I don't suppose you have any tasks that require a large blade?"

"I could find a few. Time to get Hawke and Tethras back in action, then?" Varric's eyes gleamed as he raised his mug in a toast.

Lucas raised his as well and clinked it against Varric's. "By all means."

"I don't mind telling you, Hawke, I'm relieved. I thought you might tell me you were thinking of going back to Ferelden. Good to hear you're sticking around."

"Would you have missed me?" Lucas teased. What he didn't tell Varric, or anyone, was the way the walls of Kirkwall seemed to close around him sometimes, forming a tunnel Lucas had to pass down, not allowing any deviation from a set path. More than anything, Lucas wanted to punch a hole in that tunnel, to escape Kirkwall and stand somewhere high atop the world letting the wind whip through his hair. But his mother needed him. Aveline needed him. Varric, for all he wouldn't admit it, and Merrill and Anders and Fenris … they needed him. He took a long swallow of ale to cover his sigh, but something in the dwarf's sharp eyes told him that Varric knew all too well what he was thinking.

"I'd have wept into my pillow every night. You're the perfect hero, Hawke." At Lucas's snort, Varric grinned. "Well, if nothing else, you give this place respectability."

"I'm sure Aveline wouldn't agree. Oh, Aveline! That reminds me—she wants us to go to the Gallows and talk to that Templar Emeric, remember him?"

"How could I forget? It's not every day I find a severed hand in a sack. Rivaini's been looking for you, too."

"What does she want? Someone to help find her pants?"

"Pretty sure that's one mystery we might as well all give up. Something about her relic, I think."

Lucas drained the last of his ale and stood up. "Well, let's get to it, then."

"Inspiring words."

"What can I say? It's a gift."


	5. Panahedan

_Huge thanks to all of you who have read and favorited and alerted and reviewed! I really appreciate your time and your enthusiasm. Particular thanks to Oleander's One for her support and excellent betaing. I hope to shrink the gaps between posts a bit going forward, especially as I get a bit more certain of what the characters need and how to get them there._

* * *

Walking through the Hanged Man's tavern, Lucas spotted a familiar figure at the bar. "Might as well find out what she wants," he said to Varric.

"Of course. Have to catch her now before she moves to the other end of the bar."

He glanced down at the dwarf, wondering what that comment meant. True, Isabela was often here, but finding out what she needed was literally no less than Lucas would have done for any of their friends. "If you'd rather not, Varric?"

"Who, me? No, I'm all in favor. Ooh, I think I might have forgotten Bianca's polish back in my room. Why don't you go talk to Rivaini while I look for it?"

"Varric," Lucas said, but the dwarf was already halfway up the stairs. He could move with surprising speed when he wanted to.

Lucas slid in between Isabela and a woman in Coterie armor who was putting the moves on Corff. He was a little surprised that Isabela wasn't startled by his sudden presence.

She grinned at him. "Come on, Hawke. You think I didn't hear you coming? You can't stealth worth a damn."

"Well, hello to you, too," he said, frowning.

"Now, now. No sulking. Although … that's a tempting lip." She leaned in close, and Lucas jerked his head back, irritated.

"Varric said you wanted something."

"Always business with you. All right, if you must." She took a long swallow of ale and signaled for another. "Do you remember the relic I told you about? Of course you do; mind like a steel trap, you have."

He leaned an elbow on the bar. "Out with it."

"I have a lead."

"Oh, here we go again," Lucas groaned.

"No, really, I'm sure of it this time!"

"That's what you said the last time. We dug up half the sewers and what did we find? A bale of badly written poetry and an old boot."

"Well, it could've been the relic."

"The relic looks like bad poetry?"

Isabela looked startled, then frightened. She reached for her ale, drinking it down and banging the cup on the counter in an unmistakable request for a refill. She'd been drinking a lot more heavily recently, Lucas had noticed. Maybe he should start bringing her along more often. The lack of a ship and this constant search for the lost relic seemed to be taking a toll on her.

"So, your lead?"

"I just … wanted to let you know that I might soon be taking you up on your offer of help. That is, if you're still willing …"

Lucas had rarely seen Isabela look so uncertain. He patted her on the shoulder. "Of course I am."

"Great. Great! Thanks."

"You busy right now?"

"Do I look it?"

"Well, then—fancy a chance to go hit things?"

She grinned, her persona slipping back into place almost visibly. "You do know how to show a girl a good time, Hawke. Now, if you'd only let the girl show you one in return …"

"I'm sure there are a dozen men within shouting distance who would love to have you show them a good time, Isabela. Why bother with me?"

"I don't really have to spell that out for you, do I, Hawke?"

He chuckled as they turned toward the door. "No, I suppose not. The pursuit and all that."

"See? Let me catch you just once, I'll be bored, we'll all be able to go on about our business."

"Oh, no. My manly feelings, you see. I couldn't take the subsequent rejection."

"Hawke, I imagine you could take just about anything."

"Just keep those thoughts in your imagination, where they belong."

"Spoilsport."

"What's the matter, Rivaini, Mount Hawke proving too tough a climb again?"

Isabela grinned wickedly at the dwarf. "Just means I need to get out my special climbing boots. With the spikes."

Lucas shuddered. "Is that supposed to sound alluring? Because, ow."

"Never know until you try."

"I'll take your word for it."

"If the two of you are finished, you mind if we go now? I can write my own dialogue, and it's a lot better than yours. I count on you, Hawke, for the plots."

"After you." Lucas bowed, and Varric preceded him grandly through the door.

Outside, Lucas began to lead the way toward the stairs down to the docks, but Varric stopped, looking in the direction of Hightown. "Hawke, if we're going to see the Qunari, doesn't that call for the elf? Having someone along who knows their language can't hurt. Unless you've picked up some Qunari in your travels?" he asked Isabela, who shook her head, looking queasy.

"The Qunari? That's where you're going?"

"They're the big action in town," Varric said.

"Oh, look, there's a big scuff on my boot," Isabela said, bending over to inspect the leather. For once, Lucas didn't think it was a ploy to get him to look at her cleavage, although he couldn't help but notice how round and full her breasts were. "I have to … go to the cobbler. Immediately."

"Can't it wait until after we've seen the Qunari?"

She raised an eyebrow at him before turning away and hurrying down the street.

"Well, that was abrupt," Varric said.

"You know anything about that?"

"About Rivaini being obsessed with her boots? They're her power source." Varric grinned.

Lucas frowned at him. "I think there was more to it than that."

"Go after her and find out."

"She wouldn't tell me anyway." Shrugging, Lucas left the problem for another day. "I'm not talking to the Arishok with just you. No offense, but you're not much of a shield."

"I'm not anyone's shield—why do you think I spend so much time with a human who's three times my size? If you want to hide behind someone, we should get Aveline."

"Good thinking." Lucas grinned. He couldn't wait to see Aveline face off against the Arishok.

As they reached the top of the stairs up from Lowtown, traffic seemed to slow. Lucas muscled his way through the crowds to see what the blockage was. It turned out to be a familiar elf standing at the top of the stares, glaring at all comers. "There you are, Hawke."

"Fenris, you could have come down, you know, instead of causing a traffic jam."

The only response to Lucas's comment was another glare; not that he had expected anything else. Fenris could never admit to actually wanting to join Lucas for the day, because that would be allowing himself to depend on someone, an idea that was anathema to the elf.

"If you're not busy, would you like to join us in going to see the Arishok?" Lucas asked. No doubt Fenris would, but it was always well to attend to the courtesies where the elf was involved.

"Of course. You are aware, I imagine, that the Arishok is the other way," the elf commented as they moved farther into Hightown toward the Viscount's Keep.

"We're picking up Aveline."

"Do you think that's wise? Aveline is not precisely subtle."

"Says the pot about the kettle," Varric put in, earning himself a special glare.

"True enough," Lucas said, not specifying which of them he was agreeing with. "But it's Aveline's city, after all. She should know what's happening in it."

Aveline concurred with that opinion, as it turned out, and so the four of them approached the Qunari compound on the docks together. A lone Qunari came out of the compound, placing his large body directly in front of Lucas.

"Hawke."

"That's the name," Lucas said cheerfully.

"A patrol has gone missing."

"Really? Sorry to hear that."

"Where were they?" Aveline asked, looking concerned.

The Qunari didn't break eye contact with Lucas as he answered. "They were to patrol the Wounded Coast looking for Tal Vashoth. Most bas in this city have no concept of honor, but you, Hawke, have a bare inkling of what it may entail. I will do you the courtesy of asking: Did you kill them?"

Lucas frowned, parsing the compliment out of the Qunari's long-winded speech with some difficulty. "I'm flattered you would consider me a candidate, but I don't know why I would tell you if I had killed them. After all, I would hardly want you to try to kill me in retaliation."

"I seek an answer to a question, nothing more. Vengeance is not relevant to this task."

"Hawke can't be your only suspect," Varric said. "There's the Coterie, the Carta, the Raiders … and that's just for starters."

At that the Qunari did look away from Hawke, casting a withering look at the dwarf. "Only Hawke could be considered capable of felling an entire karataam."

"Well, congratulations, Hawke," Varric muttered.

"Yes, I feel so fortunate. As it happens," Lucas said, "I did not kill your karataam. Would you like me to help you find out who did?"

"That is my task, human."

"Of course. Foolish of me to consider offering my assistance."

"Foolish indeed, Hawke," Fenris muttered as they walked past the big Qunari. "It is not wise to taunt the Qunari. Their sense of humor does not allow for flippancy."

"Pity." Lucas sighed dramatically.

Fenris said something in Arcanum under his breath; from the exasperated look that accompanied it, Lucas decided it probably wasn't complimentary. The silent Qunari at the gate opened it as they approached. Lucas could feel the guard's black eyes on him as they walked into the compound toward the Arishok's dwelling. He wondered what the Arishok did all day. It appeared he spent most of it on his throne, but he seemed too energetic for such inactivity.

He looked up as they approached, his gaze flowing over Varric and Fenris, resting briefly on Aveline with something like amusement, and finally settling on Lucas. "Serah Hawke."

"Messere. You wished to speak to me."

"Yes." There was a pause as the two men looked at one another, before the Arishok continued, "I did not know your name the last time we spoke. I did not care to. But we hear things; you have changed your fortunes, Serah. The Qunari have not."

"Yes, we've noticed," Aveline put in. "When is that boat coming?"

"When it comes." The Arishok allowed Aveline a brief frown before looking back at Hawke. "Someone has stolen the formula for gaatlok. You will want to hunt him." He folded his arms and looked away, as if to signal that the interview was over.

"Gaatlok?" Lucas asked.

"Their explosives," Fenris said quietly. "I am surprised such a thing was allowed."

"It was not. The thief assumed the formula was for gaatlok, because that was what we wanted him to think, but in fact the formula was for saar-qamek, a poisoned gas."

"Why not just kill the thief?"

The Arishok's eyes glinted at Lucas, and in them Lucas could read a certain satisfaction.

"What does this gas do, then?" he asked.

"It is as dangerous as those who breathe it; it causes them to turn against their own."

"Aren't you worried about your people?" But Lucas knew it was a futile question before the Arishok confirmed that Qunari were immune. "So you let some thief walk out of here with this formula; didn't try to stop him—if you had really tried, you'd have succeeded. We all know you hate this city—"

"Even though we don't know why you're still here," Aveline muttered.

"Why bother to warn us?" Lucas continued, as though Aveline hadn't spoken.

The Arishok tilted his head just a little, studying Lucas as he might study a bug under a magnifying glass. "No one in this city can claim the honor of being an ally, or even better, a good rival. But you, Hawke, you have shown promise. I give you this information to see how you will deal with it."

"Could be Javaris," Varric suggested.

"I thought he got the idea last time. Can you really see him storming the compound to steal the formula?"

"I can see him hiring someone to do so," Aveline said.

"Many have sought the formula for gaatlok," the Arishok said, "but only the short mouth chose to delude himself beyond 'no'. As I say, Hawke, you will want to hunt him."

"If he's made any of that gas, I'll have his head," Lucas vowed grimly.

The Arishok stood up, crossing his arms across his massive chest. "Panahedan, Hawke. It is interesting."

"What is?"

"That I do not hope you die."


	6. In Dreams

_Dear readers: my continued thanks for sticking with this story, and for sharing your enthusiasm for Lucas and Isabela with me. Special thanks to my beta, Oleander's One, for her sharp editorial eye and warm support._

* * *

Isabela was loitering around the top of the stairway that led up from the docks. "What did horned and grumpy have to say?"

"Stolen formula, catch the thief for him, maybe we'll get lucky and not die," Lucas summarized. "Sorry you missed it?"

"Not particularly. You going after this thief?" She fell into step next to him, her long legs nearly matching his strides.

Aveline had fallen back to walk with Fenris when Isabela joined them, and Lucas glanced back briefly at her, wishing she had stayed next to him. It took Isabela repeating her question for him to notice she had spoken. "Um, yeah, I suppose. Varric, where is Javaris these days?"

"Haven't heard much about him recently. I can ask around. The Coterie might have tabs on him; he pissed off enough of them to be on their list for the next half an age."

They were nearing the Hanged Man now, and a slender woman who had been waiting next to the door rushed to Lucas's side. "Oh, Serah Hawke, I'm so relieved to find you here."

"Arianni?" he asked, hoping he had her name right. "Is this about Feynriel?"

"Yes, serah. H-he …" She looked around her nervously, then leaned in closer. "He is so unhappy in the Circle. All their restrictions … And now—Now—" She gave a sob, trembling. "He has gone into a dream and will not wake!"

"How do you know all that?" Isabela asked bluntly. "Aren't they supposed to be all locked away there in the Gallows, no letters home?"

Lucas was annoyed at Isabela's brusqueness, which had Arianni cringing away from the pirate, but he had to admit it was a good point. "How do you know, Arianni?"

"Well, Ser Thrask … Um …" The pinkness in the elf's cheeks said enough for Lucas to get the picture. "He says there is nothing the Circle can do for Feynriel, that if he doesn't wake they will make him Tranquil. Oh, please, serah! Please don't let that happen to my son!"

"What can I do? Knight-Commander Meredith doesn't exactly approve of people interfering with her work."

Looking around anxiously, Arianni drew him away from the Hanged Man into the mouth of a nearby alley. "There is a ritual that can send a non-mage into the Fade, someone Feynriel trusts."

"Then why don't you go?" he asked her.

"Feynriel doesn't trust me. He thinks—He thinks I want to make him Tranquil!"

"I sent him to the Circle. Why would he trust me, if he doesn't trust you?"

"He thinks you're looking out for his best interests. I think maybe he sees a little of his father in you. Please help him!"

"What would you want me to do?"

"I've sent for Keeper Marethari. She's waiting in the Alienage and will explain everything. Will you come with me?"

"All right." Lucas looked at the others.

Aveline was fidgeting, looking up at the sun. "Hawke, I have to get back. And this—" She gave Arianni a disapproving glance. "This is not something I should be helping with. Excuse me." And she was gone, stalking off toward the stairs, her shoulders stiff.

There was silence for a moment as Lucas wrestled with the decision. "Fine. I'll help. Lead me to Marethari."

"Oh, thank you, serah, thank you!" Arianni appeared as though she might faint from relief, but she rallied and led the way toward the Alienage. Lucas walked with her, not wanting to talk to his team. He could feel Fenris's bristling disapproval behind him … but Fenris _was_ behind him, despite his disagreement with Lucas's decision, and Lucas appreciated the elf for that unswerving loyalty.

Marethari was waiting for them beneath the venedahl tree. She reached out a hand to Lucas, who, as usual, wasn't sure if he was meant to shake it or kiss it. He settled for gripping her fingers for a moment.

"It is good that you have come," she said. "We have no time to lose."

"Oh, my poor Feynriel!" Arianni shrieked. Marethari shot her a quelling look, and the elf took a visible breath, calming herself with difficulty.

"We should speak indoors. What I have to say is not for the entire Alienage to hear."

"May I come?"

Lucas was startled, not having noticed Merrill leaving her house and appearing in the midst of their group.

Marethari's mouth pinched as she regarded the elven mage, but at last she gave a short nod, leading the way to Arianni's small home. The seven of them were a tight squeeze in the cramped quarters, and Lucas noticed Fenris staring at the finicky neatness of the tiny house. He smothered a smile, thinking of Fenris's vast mansion and the utter chaos it was in. There was something to be said in the difference, of freedom and how it was defined and kept, but Lucas would leave that train of thought for another day.

"Feynriel has gone into a dream. I fear the consequences if he does not come out," Marethari said.

"I assume he would not survive," Lucas said carefully, not looking at Arianni.

"It is worse than that. Far worse. Feynriel is a somniari. He possesses magic that allows him to control the Fade, to walk in the dreams of others and to … affect their dreams, and through dreams, their waking lives."

Fenris was looking faintly green at that idea. Merrill was frowning. Varric, having no connection to the Fade, seemed merely intrigued. Isabela was watching both Arianni and Marethari carefully. Lucas was surprised that she didn't make a joke, or offer a suggestive remark.

Marethari continued, "Feynriel is the first somniari to survive in two ages."

"That we know of," Merrill put in, garnering herself an irritated glance from the Keeper.

"We are as certain as we can be. Most somniari attract demons at an early age. They do not last long." Under her breath, she added something that might have been, "Mercifully." Then she looked up, her eyes meeting Lucas's squarely. There was a message there, a warning he could read clearly, and he felt his irritation with the Keeper rise a notch. So she didn't want to do what must be done. She hadn't wanted to be firm with Merrill, either, and the little elf was clearly up to something no one was going to be happy about. Now it was another struggling young mage, and Marethari was using Lucas as a hired sword to avoid getting her own hands dirty. Well, maybe Lucas would have liked to have been one of the good guys himself, had she—or anyone—ever considered that?

Arianni was babbling something hysterical about taking care of her boy, while Lucas's eyes stayed locked on Marethari's. He nodded, briefly, letting the old mage know that he understood her.

"You will need to enter the Fade," she said. "It is the only way to reach Feynriel. I am prepared to perform the ritual as soon as you are ready."

"You will send him into the Fade to save this half-blooded boy?" Merrill said angrily. "You would never do so much for me!" Marethari ignored her former First completely, and Merrill's face filled with sadness. "I see. I truly see, now." Quietly, she let herself out of the crowded hovel.

Lucas caught Isabela's eyes on the closed door, a rare seriousness in the pirate's face. Isabela cared for Merrill with a tenderness she showed no one else. He wanted to tell Isabela to go after the little elf, but the moment passed and Isabela's amber eyes turned toward Marethari with an unforgiving light.

Marethari was still looking at Lucas. "Are you ready? Are your companions ready for what they will face? Think carefully, for all will be brought to temptation."

"Companions?" Fenris's face hardened. "I have no desire to submit myself to magic … but I will do so if you need me, Hawke."

"Thank you, Fenris. Your practical good sense will serve me well, no doubt." Lucas grinned, but there was no answering smile on the elf's face.

"I admit, I'm fascinated, Hawke. Never been to the Fade." Varric reached around to stroke Bianca's stock, a nervous habit that belied his eager words.

"You've never been anywhere, Varric," Isabela pointed out. She nodded at Lucas, unable to repress her enthusiasm. "I'll go. I'm always up for a party."

Marethari clearly was less than pleased with all three responses, to judge from the silent disdain with which she regarded his companions. Not that Lucas cared—these three would fight an army of demons if such a thing was required. He wished Aveline was there with her strong shield arm … but Aveline had refused to assist in this task at all. She would not have joined him in the Fade willingly.

"We're ready, then," he said to Marethari. "What do we do?"

The room went black, then a wavery grey. Lucas blinked his eyes rapidly, trying to adjust to the softened edges and blurring of his surroundings. He appeared to be in a hallway of some sort. From behind him, Fenris's sharp voice said, "Do not trust your sight. Nothing here is real." Then, after a moment, he repeated, "Nothing here is real," as if he was attempting to convince himself.

"Right," Varric muttered. "Nothing real. Got it."

"Well, as long as we're all clear on that." Lucas strode down the hallway, surprised to find it firm and solid beneath his boots. He led them all through a door and into a large courtyard, where a fat demon hovered, watching them as they navigated a flight of stairs. It was difficult with the reduced visibility—Lucas expected to miss a step and go tumbling down any minute.

The demon came toward them. If it had had a mouth, it would have been smiling. "Welcome! Such a surprising amount of activity … but it has potential." It looked Lucas up and down. "Perhaps we could—"

"Shut up," Fenris said, a little desperately, and he leaped forward, his sword slicing the demon neatly in two. Two rage demons emerged from the floor behind them; Varric spun to level Bianca at one, and Isabela rolled across the floor to bury her daggers in the other.

When they were nothing but a pile of sparks on the hazy floor, Varric said, "That was bracing. You think that's going to happen a lot around here?"

"Marethari said these somniari draw demons, so I wouldn't be surprised. All the better reason to get this done with quickly." Lucas looked around, squinting to try to bring things into focus. Up the steps and across the courtyard from where they stood, a door gave off a faint glow. "I guess we go up there." He looked questioningly at his companions, who shrugged and seemed willing to follow him into the room he indicated.

Pushing open the door, he stepped through, and found himself altering, changing seamlessly into a younger version of Arianni. A little boy sat at a table, writing on a piece of vellum, while a man Lucas recognized as Vincento, Feynriel's father, bent over him, heaping praise on the boy's accomplishments.

Oh, for the Maker's sake, Lucas thought in irritation. The boy had father issues? Well, who didn't? "Feynriel," he said aloud, disconcerted to hear Arianni's voice coming from his mouth. "Your father never paid this kind of attention to you. He disowned you, remember?"

The vision of Vincento looked up and glared at him. The young boy morphed into the older Feynriel, who looked between Lucas in his Arianni form and the demon in its Vincento form, burst into tears, and ran away, the wall fluttering open as he ran through it. Lucas was relieved to see that once Feynriel was gone he no longer had the guise of Arianni, but his relief was short-lived.

"You took him! He was mine!" The demon transformed as it spoke, taking the seductive shape of a desire demon. She sashayed toward Lucas, the tassels on her breasts twirling.

"Mmm," Isabela said appreciatively.

The noise distracted the demon's attention away from Lucas. She turned to the pirate, grey hands speculatively caressing her own breasts. "Ah," the demon said. "Instead of attacking, maybe I will simply take a new plaything, now that you have run off my old one. Tell me, handsome," she said, casting a flirtatious glance in Lucas's direction, "how loyal is your pirate queen? What would it take to tempt her from your side?"

Very little, it appeared. Isabela was uniquely vulnerable to a desire demon's wiles. Lucas could see her licking her lips, her eyes on the demon's hands.

"What do you say, my beauty? The open sea beckons. I know you've been looking for a stiff masthead."

'Stiff masthead'? That was the best the demon could do? But apparently it was working on Isabela. Her eyes were glazed over, and she was swaying toward the demon.

"Should I turn around to let you stab me in the back, or let it be a surprise?" Lucas said. He recognized inevitability when he saw it. Isabela couldn't be trusted to put the needs of others above her own desires.

Isabela glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. "Aw, aren't you just the sweetest thing." She took two slow, languorous steps in the demon's direction.

"Mmm," purred the demon. "The _Siren's Call II_ lies waiting for you in Kirkwall harbor. Oh, the gleaming, muscular bodies of the crew, the smell of fresh pine from the masts … and I will be waiting for you under the furs in the captain's cabin." She crooked her finger, walking backward with Isabela following her.

Lucas shook himself. What was he thinking, letting her fall under the way of a demon like this? "Isabela!"

The demon looked back over her shoulder, glaring at him. "Kill him!" she commanded, and Isabela obediently turned, pulling her daggers. Lucas ducked just in time to avoid the one that flew over his head, thanking the Maker that he'd fought with Isabela long enough to know her moves. Varric and Fenris were occupied with the desire demon and two shades that had appeared from the corners of the room, which left Lucas to deal with Isabela. He was reluctant to kill her, even in the Fade, not knowing what that would do to her in the real world.

Isabela, however, still firmly in the demon's thrall, had no such scruples. Her blades were flashing as she moved, and if Lucas hadn't been significantly more agile than the average two-handed weapon wielder, he'd have already found out, firsthand, what happened when a person died in the Fade. He was glad he had spent so much time sparring with Fenris, learning the elf's more graceful style.

He lifted his blade over his head, dancing back when Isabela thrust a dagger at his ribs, then brought the sword down in a swift circle, clipping her in the unprotected side. Isabela dodged at the last minute, avoiding the worst of the blow. In a puff of smoke she was gone. Lucas knew this move, so he whirled around to be ready for her … only to find that she was still at his back, having anticipated that he would move to block her. The sharp point of the dagger sank into his back. The pain was excruciating. He was about to fall to his knees, unable to stand for the agony, when he caught sight of Fenris and remembered the elf's mantra. "Nothing here is real." The wound wasn't real; neither was the pain.

Deftly, Lucas shifted his sword to his left hand and smashed his right elbow into Isabela's face as she came around to attack him from the front. The blow bloodied her nose and knocked her backwards. Turning to face her, he ran her through with the sword. Her eyes met his, filling with tears as she gingerly touched the edge of the blade. Lucas couldn't believe what he had done. He reached for her hand, but her image wavered and faded, and then he, Fenris, and Varric were alone in the room.

"Hawke, what did you do?" Varric asked, staring at the empty space where Isabela had been. "Did you really just kill Rivaini?"

"It was her or me," Lucas said. "I didn't want to!"

"You couldn't have just … knocked her out or something?"

"What would you have done?"

Varric looked up at him. "Good point. How do we get out of this to see if she made it back?"

"I believe we must finish with Feynriel before we will be allowed out of this cursed place," Fenris said. He was rubbing his arms, shivering. There was nothing the elf hated more than magic, and here he was, surrounded by it.

"Well, Feynriel's not here anymore. Let's go see if that courtyard is still there—maybe he's out there now." Lucas led the way back through the door, unable to get Isabela's startled face and tear-filled eyes out of his mind. Assuming they both survived this nightmare, he was going to have to make it up to her, although how to do that eluded him for the moment. He wondered what an appropriate apology might be for killing someone. White lilies, perhaps. Isabela might find that amusing—if she still lived. He quickened his pace, wanting to get out of the blasted Fade as soon as possible.


	7. Control

_Tremendous thanks to all of you for reading and for sharing your thoughts with me! Special thanks to Oleander's One, for her thoughtful and supportive betaing._

* * *

On the other side of the Fade-created courtyard, another door pulsed. "Wonder what's behind there." Lucas glanced at his companions. "I hope neither of you are going to be as easy to sway as Isabela was."

Varric chuckled nervously and Fenris cleared his throat. They looked stalwart enough, but Lucas didn't miss the lack of a real response.

On the other side of the door, he found his appearance had altered again; he was now an elf wearing robes. A mage of some kind, then. A group of elves were standing in a forest glade that seemed odd in this place of stone walls. Lucas recognized Marethari, standing next to Feynriel and saying, " … our hope for the future, Feynriel. He is at the mercy of the Circle for now, but he will find freedom through the Dalish and lead our people back to prominence again."

Well, Feynriel was a teenager, after all. It only made sense that his dreams would be both as simple as his father's approval and as grandiose as saving an entire culture. Lucas strode into the middle of the glade. "This is a trick. She's a demon."

"F-First Enchanter?"

Oh, is that who he was supposed to be?

Feynriel's voice wobbled, but he stayed by Marethari's side. "The Dalish are honorable people; the Keeper wouldn't lie to me!"

"The Keeper wouldn't look to a human as her savior," Lucas countered.

"Don't listen to him," the demon-Marethari said. "You are of our blood; you will restore us to our former glory."

"But …" Feynriel looked back and forth between them. "The Circle says I am untrained. I can't control my magic—I don't even understand it! How can I save you?" His voice broke as the realization began to break in on him.

"That's a demon, Feynriel. You know it," Lucas said softly.

"He lies!" snarled the demon-Marethari. "The First Enchanter is a pawn of the Templars!"

"Mother's people don't consort with demons." Feynriel's mouth turned down, his shoulders slumping in defeat. He turned and walked from the scene, the walls opening for him and closing behind him.

"How dare you!" The demon no longer looked like Marethari; it had grown into a hulking huge Pride demon, and it roared over Lucas's head. "With my power joined to his, Feynriel would have changed the world."

Lucas shrugged. "I just didn't think he wanted to go through life looking like you. I'm sure he'll thank me later."

The demon stopped short, staring at him. In a calmer tone of voice, it said, "That's the trouble with you humans—so caught up in appearances, you never find real power. If you look only at the surface, you never touch anything deeper. Perhaps your friends' loyalty is only skin deep, as well?" The demon's eyes roved between Fenris and Varric. "Would this slave stick by you, if offered his heart's desire?"

"Cast your eyes elsewhere, demon," Fenris said, the faint quiver in his voice belying his strong words. "I won my freedom from the magisters long ago, and I did it with the assistance of no supernatural force."

"Freedom? Can you call it that, when you still bear their marks on your body and in your mind? What if I can offer you power to challenge any who would chain you, enough to ensure your safety no matter what strength is marshaled against you?"

Fenris swallowed audibly. He was shaking, Lucas noticed, and he reached out to lay a hand on his friend's arm. Fenris side-stepped the hand, casting a black look at Lucas.

"If you accept this offer, you are no better than the magisters who did this to you," Lucas said in a low voice.

"But … to face them as an equal …" There was a tremulousness in Fenris's voice, a wonder, that Lucas had never heard before. His eyes fixed on the demon, the elf took a slow step forward. Then he crumpled to the ground, disappearing from sight.

Varric patted Bianca. "Always wanted to shoot that broody bastard in the ass."

"Nice shot." Lucas was relieved not to have to fight Fenris. He wasn't sure he would have won.

The demon howled in rage and charged Lucas, who threw himself out of its path at the last moment. The charge clipped him on the side and sent him sprawling. Varric put a trio of bolts into the demon, clustering them in its right flank, which distracted the demon enough that Lucas could get back up from the floor and get his sword into position. He swung it at the demon, feeling the sharp steel score the demon's stomach. It pierced only the outer edges of the thick flesh—black blood oozed rather than spurted from the site as Lucas set himself for another strike. He'd have to hit it straight on, then, to have a chance to truly kill the thing. Lucas danced around in front of the demon, taunting it as he bobbed and weaved to avoid its meaty fists as they tried to close on him. Then he ducked under the big arms and thrust his sword into the demon's belly, putting all his weight into it, forcing the blade through the rubbery layers of skin.

Hard as it was to get the sword in, it was harder to pull it back out, especially while avoiding the flailing fists. The demon had slowed now, great gouts of blood spilling from the wound in its stomach. Crossbow bolts jutted out of its skin in many places, and Bianca was busy spitting more sharp barbs at it. Lucas put some space between himself and the demon, and then, with his sword out in front of him, sprinted at full speed toward the demon. He prayed he didn't trip and fall, because the momentum would shove his own sword through his stomach and out his arse, most likely. The demon was lumbering toward him as he ran, and he launched himself off his back foot, into the air, and the combined momentum sent the sword deep into the demon's heart. Lucas was grateful that the thing disappeared as soon as it was dead; he had not relished having to pull the sword back out, not to mention cleaning it.

"Seems like the elf protests too much," Varric commented, stowing Bianca back where she belonged. "All that refusal to be tempted, and all it took was one little demon."

"Often we're loudest in our denunciation where our longing is greatest. Fenris would very much like magic to do something good for him, but he doesn't trust it to do so." He looked down at Varric. "What would you have done, if a demon dangled the thing you wanted most in front of you?"

Varric's face creased as something like sadness passed over it. "Wouldn't believe it," he muttered. "Not possible." He cleared his throat, his lips tightening as he looked up at Hawke. "What about you, Hawke? What could a demon have tempted you with? I notice they didn't even try for you. Wrong type, maybe? You don't seem to have much trouble with desire, but pride—no offense, but I'd have thought you were ripe pickings for a pride demon."

Lucas shrugged, not wanting to go too far down that path. "Apparently Isabela and Fenris were juicier targets. Who knows why demons do what they do?"

"Maybe Feynriel does."

"I doubt it. He doesn't seem to know why he does what he does, much less what makes other people tick. That's the trouble with mages—their magic takes over everything else about them. People spend too much time coddling them, or fighting over how to use their power, and not enough time teaching them to be real people. Feynriel's not a bad boy, but his mother and Thrask and the Circle and Marethari have him pulled every which way."

"You've studied on that a lot, haven't you, Hawke?"

"If I had taken the trouble to teach Bethany better hand-to-hand combat skills, she might still be alive today." He turned toward the door, wondering how much more of this it would take before they found Feynriel in a space where they could speak to him. But he couldn't help wondering—if the demon had promised to bring Bethany back, or Carver, or Father … would he have taken that deal? He liked to think of himself as a man too consumed with the practicalities of daily life to be seduced by dreams, but was it true?

Resolutely, Lucas steered his thoughts away from the speculation. There was no point in asking what might have happened; what had happened was enough.

In the courtyard, they found Feynriel, pacing back and forth and muttering to himself. He looked up as they approached. "Serah Hawke! What are you doing here?"

"I came to help you, Feynriel, so that you can awaken again."

"My dreams last longer and longer, it seems. If any of this," he gestured to their surroundings, "can be trusted, it will be the second time you've saved my life. I am grateful. But what happens the next time you are not there to step in?"

Lucas restrained himself from rolling his eyes, but only barely. All the resources at this mage's disposal, and he had to turn to someone who was barely more than a stranger to save his life? "You have to learn to stop getting into these messes in the first place; step in for yourself once in a while."

"I—I'm not strong enough. Everyone says so."

"Not strong enough! You control the Fade, and the dreams of the people in it."

"That can't be right." Feynriel frowned. "I can't even wake up."

"That's because the Fade's your medium, kid," Varric explained. "And demons are drawn to you like flies to honey."

Feynriel looked down at the dwarf thoughtfully. His eyes narrowed. "If what you say is true, then this is a great power. I will need to be trained in how to use this power effectively. The Circle would squash it; we can't let that happen." He was muttering to himself now, growing more excited with every word.

"What if the Circle is right? What if this power is dangerous, and you need to learn basic magic skills and how to control them before you can trust yourself to unleash it?" Lucas tried to get through to the boy, who seemed caught up in the potential promises of his abilities, muttering to himself about making a certain girl mage dream certain things. "Feynriel! Get a grip!"

"Serah Hawke." The boy looked at him now, considering. "I can't see how the Circle can help me now; my powers are far greater than they have any concept of."

Lucas groaned. He had wanted the boy to step up, not swell up. This kind of arrogance was dangerous. "You'll hurt someone, if you don't know how to control your magic."

"Then I should go where they can train me. I must go to Tevinter! Yes, the magisters there will know how to help me, to teach me in the uses of this power. I will be a great man there, maybe a magister myself. I can get people to give me money through their dreams, and learn their secrets, and they'll have to help me."

Lucas shook his head, listening. How quickly corruption grew, when you opened your heart to it and welcomed it in.

"This is a far cry from the sniveling boy we pulled from the slavers' hands," Varric said. It wasn't a compliment.

Feynriel was still talking to himself. "My mother would never agree to such a journey, or look kindly on my attempting it. I mustn't speak to her of my plans."

"How exactly do you intend to get out of the Circle and make your way to Tevinter?" Lucas cut in.

"Why, you'll help me, of course. Can you give my mother my farewell? No doubt she'll take the news better when it comes from you."

"You assume a great deal," Lucas said. "I haven't agreed to help you go to Tevinter, or even that studying there is a good idea. Why exactly do I want to put such power into the hands of those who are little more than enemies?"

"I wouldn't be giving my powers to the Tevinters," Feynriel scoffed. "They would be training me. My power would remain my own."

"And if you believe that, I have a bridge in Par Vollen to sell you," Varric said. "Kid, the Tevinters would have you scraping and bowing to them in nothing flat. The magisters would own you, and I'm not talking metaphorically."

Lucas shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I really can't let this unchecked, uncontrollable power go free."

"Hawke," Varric said warningly.

"Varric, I can't. My father always used to say his magic should serve that which was best in him, not that which was most base. Do you think this boy cares about that? Look at him! No one in his life has ever taught him how to harness his powers, how to control them, and now they control him. He can't even wake up on his own! And I'm supposed to just let him waltz off to Tevinter and assume the magisters are going to make something of him when his parents, the Dalish, and the Circle haven't been able to? Look what the Tevinters did to Fenris, for the Maker's sake!"

"Well, Broody isn't always the most balanced …"

"He might be a bit off on the subject, but he's not wrong. I am sorry, Feynriel," Lucas continued, turning to the boy. "I know you never asked for this power to be bestowed on you, and I know you've been done wrong by everyone you've ever come across. But it's too late. You've lost any chance you ever had to control this thing."

"I can! I can call a demon to my aid, it will teach me—"

"Not a chance." Varric leveled Bianca at the boy.

Feynriel's eyes filled with tears. He looked at Lucas. "Please, serah. I can try!"

"You've been trying. Either I do something here and now or the Circle makes you Tranquil. Is that what you want?"

Feynriel shook his head slowly. He fell to his knees.

"I don't know what happens when I kill you in the Fade, Feynriel, but I'm going to try to set you free, free to join the Maker. And may he watch over your soul."

Lucas was on the verge of tears himself. The options before him were either that Feynriel would die, which would mean Isabela and Fenris had also died, and he had lost two loyal companions; or that nothing would happen, that Feynriel would merely wake in his cell in the Gallows and it would all have to be done all over again, some other way. Neither sounded palatable. With a feeling of desperation, he plunged the knife he carried into the back of Feynriel's neck, saw the boy pitch forward onto his face, saw his body disappear. And then blackness came down over Lucas's vision and slowly the little room Arianni lived in came into view. Groaning, he pushed himself up on his elbow, closing his eyes while he waited for the dizziness to pass.

"It is done," he heard Marethari say. "I'm sorry, Arianni. Feynriel is Tranquil."

The word galvanized Lucas off the floor. "Tranquil?"

"Yes. A mage becomes Tranquil when he is killed in the Fade. Did I not tell you that?"

"It must have slipped your mind." Lucas bit the words off. Not for a moment did he believe she had 'forgotten'. She had anticipated the choice he would make, he was sure of that.

"You killed my son?" Arianni stared at him in shock and horror.

"Yes. Rather than have him go free, to run away to Tevinter and have himself trained by the magisters, or send him back to the Circle to be made Tranquil, I chose to kill him. I didn't know I was condemning him to a fate worse than death." Lucas heard a sob in his own voice, and took a long, shaky breath. "I would never have willingly done that to a person. I will have to live with the fact that I've done it now."

"Oh, Feynriel! I must go to him!" Arianni rushed out of the room.

"It is a pity she did not show such personal solicitude before things came to this pass. She might have saved us all a great deal of … discomfort." The voice was familiar, and Lucas heaved a great sigh of relief. He turned to see Fenris and Isabela both standing there, looking perfectly normal, if a bit uncomfortable when he tried to meet their eyes.

"Is there anything I should know about the effects of killing someone in the Fade who is not a mage?" he asked Marethari, not bothering to try to keep the edge out of his voice.

"No. Your friends should suffer no adverse reaction, other than their feelings about their own choices." Marethari's voice had a certain smugness, and Lucas decided he was done with her.

"In that case, I believe we will take our leave. Keeper." He bowed to her, just enough to be polite, and let himself out. Even the less-than-fresh air of the Alienage was a relief after Arianni's home.

"Hawke." Fenris's voice was rough, and Lucas shook his head.

"Not now, Fenris. Not—just, later, all right? I will speak to you both later."

"As you wish."

"You know where to find me, Hawke," Isabela muttered, practically under her breath. Both of them hurried away while trying to seem casual, which was amusingly awkward enough to distract Lucas and make him feel less as though he might break down in tears at any moment.

"Varric," he said, when he could trust his voice.

"Hawke?"

"Thanks."

"For-? Oh. Anytime. I have enough demons of my own, I don't need any others trying to crowd into my head. Of course, you'd think the same could be said of Broody and Rivaini." The dwarf chuckled.

"If you ever want to talk about any of them …"

"You'll be the first. Make that the only. I'm not much of a talker. Well, not when it comes to my own stories," Varric amended when Lucas raised his eyebrows. "Drinks?"

"Not today, I think. I believe I'll go home. Tomorrow morning, we go looking for Javaris."

"Can't wait."


	8. All the Fruitless Searches

_Many thanks to all of you who are reading and following along, particularly those of you who have taken the time to review. It is most appreciated! Special thanks to Oleander's One for betaing above and beyond the call of duty._

* * *

"Ah, darling, there you are." Leandra bustled toward Lucas as soon as he walked in the door. "I have good news!"

"What kind of news?" Lucas clasped her hand in his big one, smiling down at her. While he readily admitted that his parents hadn't been perfect, they had stood behind their children stoutly, and had never asked anyone else to fight their battles for them. He was grateful for their example.

"There's a party at the Seneschal's tomorrow, and he suggested that there might be some young ladies there who were … eligible …" She let her voice trail off, flushing a little. "I find I am turning into your typical old lady, with all their hunger for grandbabies."

Lucas laughed. "Well, I can't promise grandbabies tomorrow, but I can certainly meet a few young ladies for you. In the meantime …" He steered her toward the mirror over the hall table and stood behind her, both of them looking into it. "I want you to look at that pretty face and stop thinking of it as old. You're still a young, strong woman, compared to many, and I think you should start thinking of some companionship for yourself." Her face crumpled, and he squeezed her shoulders. "You've grieved long enough. Father wouldn't want you to waste your life mourning him—neither would Carver or Bethany."

"To think that you and I are all who are left. It's almost more than I can bear."

"If we're all that's left, isn't it then our responsibility to see that the name Hawke is one to remember, and not just for the intensity of our mourning?" He grinned at her, then sobered in the face of her serious gaze. "They're with the Maker now. Would you rather have them smiling down at us, knowing we are living our lives with love and happiness, or weeping over us as we throw away all that's good in our lives by wishing for things that can never be?"

His mother patted his hand, still on her shoulder. "When did you get so smart? I … will think about what you've said."

"Starting at the Seneschal's party?"

"Yes. Starting then." She smiled at him in the mirror, then gently disentangled herself from him and wished him a good night, heading up to bed. Lucas followed after a while, feeling like a hypocrite. They were fine words he had said to his mother, but he couldn't imagine any of his lost family being happy with what he was doing with his life, running to and fro on other people's errands and putting off his own life. Something would have to be done, he told himself as he kicked off his boots and dropped his armor on the floor. But what? He fell asleep still wondering.

The following morning, he left directly after breakfast to meet Varric in Darktown, the most likely place to find Javaris these days. He wasn't particularly surprised to find Fenris loitering around his door. The elf, to his credit, got straight to the point.

"I have been thinking about what happened in the Fade."

"I imagine you have."

"That a demon could play so easily on my fears disturbs me." It was more than a disturbance—Fenris looked as acutely miserable as Lucas had ever seen him. "I failed you," Fenris said, almost whispering.

"You failed yourself."

The elf gave an eloquent shrug, discounting his responsibility toward himself. "I swore to follow you, and when you needed my loyalty the most, I turned from you." He shivered, his lips tightening. "It will not happen again."

Lucas nodded, offering Fenris a half-smile. "Everyone gets one free demonic possession before I hold it against them."

Meeting Lucas's with a half-smile of his own, Fenris took the offering in the spirit with which it was intended. "Good to know." He hesitated, clearly expecting more, but Lucas felt no need to kick a man when he was already down. Yielding to that demon had shaken Fenris deeply as it was.

"Coming to Darktown? We're hunting Javaris."

Fenris chuckled grimly, remembering their first meeting with the dwarven merchant. They hadn't exactly parted amicably. "He will certainly be pleased to see you again, no doubt."

"Yes, indeed. We're like long-lost brothers."

Varric was waiting for them outside Anders's clinic. "Blondie heard you were coming down today. He'd like to talk to you."

Lucas groaned. Just what he needed in his day—more crazy.

"Hawke, be nice to the guy. He's done a lot of good down here," Varric said.

"For now." Lucas trusted the mage about as far as he could throw him … and often itched to find out just how far that was. But Varric was still looking at him reproachfully. He sighed—the dwarf was as bad as his mother, sometimes. "Fine, I'll talk to him."

He pushed through the door into the clinic, noting the neat rows of cots and the convalescent patients who lay there. Anders did a good job with the place, Lucas had to give him that. If only he could trust the mage to continue doing so without yielding to the militant voice in his ead. Maybe today would be an improvement on Anders's general level of paranoia and anxiety, he told himself. Maybe.

The mage was sitting at his desk, scribbling something on a piece of parchment. He looked up as Hawke came in, but instead of brightening in welcome, Anders's face tightened. "There you are."

"Was I lost?"

"You've been scarce around here, that's for sure."

"My coin has been here enough for both of us."

They stared at each other, then Anders put down his pen and stood up. "Things are getting worse. The Templars are patrolling regularly. They were practically on my doorstep the other night."

"Are they hunting you?"

"Not specifically. They're just checking the camps, as far as I can tell. But it's not like the clinic is a big secret. It's only a matter of time." He stared at Lucas as if inviting him to share Anders's outrage and fear.

"Is there something you think I can do to make you invisible to the Templars?"

Anders drew himself up, offended. "I thought you might have come to check in because you cared. People do that, you know. I'm sorry that I assumed you were one of them."

Lucas sighed. "If Meredith comes for you, Anders, no one can protect you. You know that as well as I do. I'll send some more coin down; you can buy more food and supplies."

"That is appreciated."

Lucas left the clinic. He regretted the increased tension between himself and Anders. The mage's romantic overtures had taken him by surprise and he had been more forceful in repelling them than he'd intended … but it went further than that. It went to Anders assuming that because of Lucas's father, and Bethany, that there was a sympathy between them, when in fact having grown up with apostates made Lucas feel less kindly toward them than he might have otherwise. His own life had been sacrificed, he felt, dedicated at an early age to learning swordcraft so that he could be the family's protector. Just as Bethany had had more to offer the world than magic, Lucas felt he had more to offer than a sword-arm—but her magic had kept either one of them from any chance to develop into anything else. Carver had been different. There was nothing he enjoyed more than fighting, and Lucas liked to think that his little brother had gone down fighting and taken ten darkspawn with him. Grievously wounded by the ogre's attack, Carver had stood against the approaching horde, one shining blade amongst the many tainted ones, buying the rest of them precious time. Lucas wished he could have one more moment with his brother to hug him for his sacrifice, and shake him for his stubbornness.

"Everything okay in there, Hawke?" Varric asked as he came through the clinic doors.

"No. It never is. Just gradations of the problem, really."

Fenris, mercifully, kept his thoughts to himself. Anders was one of the few things Varric and Lucas disagreed about, and the last thing they needed were the elf's strongly worded comments on the mage. Fortunately for all of them, Aveline appeared at that moment, striding through Darktown with all the power of her position visible in her attitude. A smile lit Lucas's face involuntarily at the sight of her.

"Hawke, any luck finding Javaris?" she asked.

"Varric says he has a lead."

"Varric can speak for himself," the dwarf said testily. "The Coterie says Javaris has been working out of a shanty south of here."

"Let's go see if we can shake this Qunari formula out of him."

"Will we be literally shaking him? Because I could get a lot of mileage out of you picking up Javaris by the feet and shaking him until all the coins drop out of him."

"You would advocate shaking a dwarf?" Fenris asked. "That seems unlike you, Varric."

"Not me, of course. I'd like to see someone try to pick me up and shake me. Bianca would have a thing or two to say about that," Varric said, patting her shining stock. "But other dwarves? Why not. They don't like it, they can learn to run faster."

"You appear to think very little of your own race," Fenris remarked.

"No less than you think of yours, elf."

"You have me there."

"I don't see why either of you should feel strongly toward other elves and dwarves just because of some shared physical attributes," Aveline said. "It isn't as though I look around at other humans and think warm, fuzzy thoughts about our racial connection."

"I can't imagine why not," Lucas said.

"Aren't there any particular humans you have the warm fuzzies for, Aveline?" Varric asked.

"Do not add me to your list of stories, dwarf."

Lucas smothered a smile, thinking of some broadsheets he had seen earlier. Aveline apparently hadn't seen those, or she'd know it was already too late.

A small shack ahead of them had a crowd of people gathered around it. Varric stopped short. "Well, shit."

"What?"

But Lucas had no need of the dwarf's explanation. In front of the shack, a woman with the distinctive Coterie splintmail, not to mention the approved Coterie haircut, was motioning to passersby, calling out, "Turn up your purses, Kirkwall. The leases of Javaris Tintop are for sale."

Lucas approached her. "Are you selling Javaris's assets?"

She eyed him, casting a less appreciative glance at his companions and sniffing audibly when she recognized Aveline. "Who's askin'?"

"The name's Hawke." It was a familiar one to her, as he had expected. "I was looking for Javaris."

"Well, he's skipped with no clues outstandin'. What he's got left is ours; he owes us some back dues for about ten years. It's a meager lot, but up it goes. You buyin'?"

"Information."

"Ain't got none o' that for coin. Y'oughta know better."

Lucas reined in his irritation. She couldn't know what was at stake, and the Coterie were notoriously close-mouthed. "There's a lot riding on my finding Javaris. Can you help me?" He sidled a bit closer, giving her his best wide-eyed innocent look.

Judging by the softening of her posture, she liked what she saw. "Usually value privacy, we do … but since 'e run out on payin' us, too, well …" She shrugged. "I'd put 'im at Smuggler's Cut, if I were bettin'. It's a cave outside town, houses some o' the less savory elements." She grinned, disclaiming membership in the unsavory club.

"Thanks." Lucas gave her a smile and a wink and tossed her a small pouch of coin.

She seemed disappointed but unsurprised that nothing more was forthcoming, turning back to the fire sale of Javaris's belongings. She called after Lucas, "You see Javaris, you tell 'im I said 'don't come back'."

"How far is this Smuggler's Cut?" Lucas asked Varric.

"Couple of hours outside town, I'd say."

They took the lift up to Lowtown. Lucas squinted up at the sun, calculating whether there was time to get to this cave, deal with whatever he found there, and get back before the party he'd promised his mother he would attend. There wasn't, he decided with a sigh.

"If he's outside town, he can hardly be ready to release this gas, even if he's made it."

"Are you willing to gamble lives on your logic?" Fenris asked. There was no censure in the elf's voice, just curiosity.

"That could be actionable, if Javaris succeeds in making this gas and you knew and didn't stop him in time." Aveline's green eyes were serious and a little worried; dare he hope she was concerned about him? No, Lucas decided, no doubt her concern was strictly for the welfare of the citizens she was tasked to protect. As it should be, of course, he reminded himself.

Varric snorted, chuckling. "So Javaris makes this stuff out at Smuggler's Cut and takes out the public-spirited citizens out there? Who's going to cry about that?"

"Point well taken, Varric," Aveline conceded.

"Will I see you at the Seneschal's tonight, Aveline?" Lucas asked.

She sighed. "Yes. I've been informed that it is in keeping with my station to appear at these things. I'd rather be out here with a sword in my hand, though." There was a brief silence as all three men considered the rejoinder Isabela would have made to that remark, and Aveline bristled. "Steel, you immature imbeciles!" Muttering under her breath, she stomped off.

"Speaking of Rivaini," Varric said, even though no one had mentioned her directly.

"No, Varric. Really, not now." Lucas didn't care to consider why he was less tolerant of Isabela's betrayal of him in the Fade than he had been of Fenris's. Possibly because the elf had approached him directly and at least attempted to make an apology? Either way, he wasn't interested in considering Isabela's issues right now.

"Fine. Drinks, then, since your day has freed up until you have to go get pretty for the Seneschal?"

"Sure. Why not?"

Fenris begged off. No doubt he would go back to his mansion and close the door on the bright sunny day and brood. Lucas wondered how long it would take the elf to embrace freedom and begin to consider what he would do with the life that was now his own. No one would be able to rush him, though—Fenris would have to come to an understanding of freedom on his own or he would never believe the conclusions.

"Hey. Hawke." Varric snapped his fingers under Lucas's nose. "Hanged Man. Drinks. These ring a bell?"

"Dimly."

"That's because you've had them too often."

"You can say that again." Lucas chuckled, following Varric through the crowded streets of Lowtown. Much as he wasn't looking forward to dressing up and making small talk with all the stuffed shirt nobles of Kirkwall, he was far from minding the change of pace, the chance to use his brain instead of his blade for a while. Perhaps he could make some business contacts tonight, begin developing a profession that didn't involve killing people or tracking his boots through the muck in Darktown or doing the bidding of the Qunari.

He and Varric had a couple of ales, Lucas slowly relaxing in the familiar raucous atmosphere of the bar. He wasn't paying much attention to the scuffle going on behind him—everyday stuff for the Hanged Man—until he heard a familiar voice crying out in pain and outrage. Lucas was on his feet before he had time to think, whirling around to see a large man with red hair pinning Isabela's arms painfully behind her back while a shorter man tried to pat her down for knives. Isabela struggled and kicked, but the redhead was twice her size in all directions.

Lucas charged in, planting his foot firmly in the backside of the smaller man, sending him staggering against Isabela and the redhead. The impact loosened the redhead's grip on Isabela's arms just enough for her to wrench one free. In a lightning-fast spin, she managed to reverse their positions so she held the redhead's arm pinned behind his back. She shoved it upwards, and he cried out in pain.

"See how you like it," she said. "Next time, when a lady says to leave her alone, take her word for it."

"Lady?" sneered the shorter man. "Where?"

Lucas was irritated by the simple slur far more than he felt he should have been. He introduced the smaller man to the business end of his fist, sending him skidding along the floor. The floor of the Hanged Man had been known to eat through people's shoes—smart people touched it as little as possible. The smaller man looked as frightened of the waste left on the back of his shirt and his pants as he was of Lucas as he got to his feet and ran out of the bar. Isabela gave the redhead one more twist of the arm before shoving him away from her.

"And don't come back!" she shouted after him.

Lucas approached her, looking down into her face. He'd never noticed how small of stature she was before. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah. I hate that they got the drop on me. Don't know how he knew to watch for my boot dagger," Isabela grumbled. Neither she nor Lucas noticed the satisfied smirk on Varric's face. The dwarf hadn't stirred from his spot at the table during the fracas.

As Lucas's eyes met Isabela's, he remembered yesterday in the Fade and her quick and easy betrayal of him. So did she, to judge by the way her gaze shifted under the weight of his.

"I'll see you later," he said gruffly, skirting around her.

"Wait, Hawke."

"What is it?"

Isabela came around in front of him. "I'm sorry I abandoned you in the Fade. That was foolish of me." She gave a forced smile. "I mean, I didn't even get the ship in the end."

"Did you think you would?"

"I don't know what I was thinking. I couldn't think. I could only feel. It was like being on the ocean, with the breeze in my hair and the scent of the tar on the ropes. There's nothing like it. And I wanted that feeling again, so badly. I—it's not an excuse, I know, and I'm really sorry."

Lucas envied her the wonder and the longing in her eyes when she spoke about the sea. Grounded she might be for the moment, but the ocean was in her blood. It was her passion in a way Lucas could only imagine being passionate about anything. "I don't blame you," he said, his voice hoarse.

Isabela was already starting to bluster in compensation for her moment of sincerity and in defense against his assumed condemnation. She stopped in mid-word. "What? No angry rant? No bitterness? No casting me out of the Hanged Man for life?"

"Do I even have that power? It's news to me if I do." He smiled at her. "No, none of that. Not this time."

"Why?"

Something made Lucas want to explain … but they were in the middle of the Hanged Man, and he didn't need an audience. "You were made to be fodder for a desire demon," he said instead.

"Ooh, are you trying to get me to jump into bed with you? Because it's working." She swayed against him. Their gazes were locked together; Lucas had never looked so deeply into her eyes before. There was more there than he had expected to find, and it took him by surprise.

He stepped back hastily, deflecting the moment as best he could. "You mean you weren't ready to jump into bed before? I'm crushed."

Isabela blinked, caught by surprise for a brief second before her mask slid back into place, and Lucas was startled. Had she felt that look the way he had? Had she meant her suggestion differently than her usual onslaught of innuendos? "Anytime, big boy," she said, but Lucas wasn't so sure.

Something felt different between them, something seemed to have shifted. Lucas wasn't sure what it was, but he rather liked the less cocksure Isabela he was seeing right now. Without planning to do so, he heard himself saying, "So I have to go to the Seneschal's and make nice with a bunch of nobles. Do you think you could clean up and go with me? You'd, uh, have to be on your best behavior. If you have a best behavior."

She grinned, a slow smile like warm syrup. "Sweet thing, I can clean up with the best of them. Just you watch."

"I can't wait," he said, and as she disappeared up the stairs, promising to be ready when he came back for her, he found he really couldn't.


	9. It Happened One Night

_This one was fun to write - I hope you all enjoy it! Many thanks to my tremendous beta, Oleander's One!_

* * *

Lucas arrived at the Hanged Man with a few minutes to spare before he was due at the Seneschal's party. He had left his mother to be escorted by Bodahn, who would see that she got to the keep safely. She had been wild with curiosity about who he was taking, but he hadn't felt comfortable telling her it was Isabela. In truth, now that it was too late to back out, he wished he hadn't asked the pirate to go with him—after all, wasn't he supposed to be trying to meet a nice girl to settle down with, in order to give his mother the grandbabies she'd been asking about? For that matter, Aveline had said she would be there. If he were ever going to pursue his attraction to Aveline, was it really the right idea to bring Isabela along? The two women reacted on one another like oil and water.

It was too late to back out now, though. He was here, and upstairs Isabela was dressing, and all he could do was hope that she would wear something that didn't embarrass him too badly.

Varric came down before Isabela did. "Hawke! Did we agree to meet here?"

"What? No. Are you going to the Seneschal's?"

"Wouldn't miss it. Good food, lots of intriguing little tidbits of gossip to collect, very few members of the Merchant's Guild. I always wondered why those idiots don't go to more events—you learn so much. It's the source of a lot of my advantages in business."

"Huh." Lucas was fidgeting slightly. Where was she?

The wrinkles in Varric's forehead suddenly smoothed out. "Oh, you're here for Rivaini, are you?" He chuckled. "This party certainly won't be dull."

Lucas groaned, and Varric left, still chortling to himself.

Isabela appeared a few moments later, so swathed in a long black satin cloak that Lucas couldn't see what she wore beneath it. Admittedly, he was nervous, but her hair made him less so—it was swirled up on top of her head in a startlingly elegant sweep, shining in the dull lamplight of the Hanged Man like ebony. Even her makeup had been toned down somewhat. Nothing about her screamed pirate queen. And she knew it, stepping down the stairs carefully and with the knowledge that every eye was on her.

"Shall we go?" she asked him as she reached the bottom of the steps, holding her cloak up to avoid contact with the floor. Lucas could do no less than offer her his arm, and he felt almost stereotypically big and manly with such a beautiful woman on his arm. He resisted the urge to smirk at every man he passed, pointing up the fact that she was with him and not them … but just barely.

Outside, he turned to look at her. "Isabela."

"No. No pretty compliments, no remarks on how surprised you are that I look like something other than a cheap floozy. Let's just go, all right?" she said, looking around almost nervously.

Lucas looked at her more closely, and he could see what he hadn't before—that she was uncomfortable and a little scared. "If you don't want to do this, we don't have to."

"Of course I want to," she snapped. "Just … walk, all right."

"If you insist." He held his arm out and they headed for the steps up to Hightown.

The keep was lit up, fancily dressed couples moving up the stairs in front of them.

"Well, at least we're not late," Isabela muttered.

"The faux pas would be arriving early, anyway. One likes to make an entrance at these things."

"I know all about making an entrance." She clutched the closure of her cloak, and Lucas blanched, wondering what she was wearing underneath it. He hoped this wouldn't turn out to be a tremendous mistake.

"Serah Hawke and guest," intoned the guardsman at the door, a big fellow with bushy brown sideburns. He looked vaguely familiar to Lucas, who frowned for a moment, trying to place him.

"Guardsman … Donnic, isn't it? We met a few years ago—you had been attacked on patrol."

"Oh, yes, of course. You're the captain's friend." He inclined his head.

Lucas had to tilt his head a bit to look up at the fellow, an unusual turn of events. He was used to being among the tallest people in the room. "I see my infamy has preceded me," he said, grinning.

"Yes, Serah." Guardsman Donnic's serious face didn't alter by a muscle.

Isabela started quivering, clearly holding back giggles, and Lucas hastily made his good-byes to the guardsman. "Stiff-necked sort, that one," he remarked to Isabela as they moved away from the door.

"I doubt it's his neck the ladies are interested in getting stiff," she murmured back.

"Will you, please, exhibit some—" The words died in his throat as they reached the coat check and Isabela slid her cloak off her shoulders. Her bare shoulders. Her very shapely, browned, bare shoulders. Her dress was a deep, dark blue, bound tightly over her generous breasts. So tightly that nothing was exposed, but absolutely nothing was left to the imagination. He felt an instantaneous urge to unbind those lovely breasts and let them fall free, preferably into his hands.

Isabela's eyes warmed knowingly as he stared. "Hawke."

"Yes? Oh, um … Right." He held his arm out to her, feeling himself stir as those warm, round, firm breasts brushed against his arm. Holy Maker, she knew what she was doing. As they walked further into the room, he couldn't help noticing that the skirt of the dress, falling from just beneath her bosom, was made of long, silken petals of the same dark blue material, and the panels shifted and parted as she walked, displaying tantalizing glimpses of her long tanned thighs and the exquisitely fitted black boots she wore. Whatever she was paying her dressmaker, it wasn't close to enough. The dress was absolutely stunning and appropriate for the occasion, and just as absolutely guaranteed to make every man in the room want her to take it off. Lucas felt a startling surge of protective anger at the thought. No one would lay a finger on her if he had anything to say about it, he thought, forgetting momentarily that Isabela was more than capable of defending herself and no doubt had seven or eight daggers concealed in that dress.

"Your eyes are about to pop out of your head." Her tone made it clear she knew what else was likely to pop out, as well.

As luck would have it, that's when he spied Aveline. Her finery was pure Ferelden—garish colors, ill-fitting corselet around her waist, short skirt that did nothing but make her look awkward. She desperately needed a visit with Isabela's dressmaker, Lucas thought. He moved toward her, Isabela following in his wake.

"Hawke." Aveline said with a small, tight, nervous smile as he approached. It disappeared when she looked over his shoulder. "Isabela," she said coolly.

Isabela wore a big smile. "Aveline."

"Fancy seeing you here."

"Hawke invited me."

"Did he now." From the lack of amusement in Aveline's green eyes, Lucas imagined he was in for a dressing down next time he saw her. And deserved, no doubt. What had he been thinking, bringing Isabela to a function of this nature? Especially when whatever lay between Aveline and himself was yet to be explored. Never mind that in the contest for men's attention tonight, Isabela was the clear winner and Aveline hadn't even made an entry. Being attracted to someone was about more than their looks, he told himself. "And how are you finding your evening?"

"Just got here," Isabela said cheerfully.

"Isabela. Do not steal anything."

"I'm no thief! What do you take me for? I come by all my goods the honest way—gambling and piracy." Isabela's eyes were twinkling, and Aveline gave a deep, exasperated sigh before turning away from the other woman.

"Keep an eye on her. If she does anything—anything!—to embarrass me, I know who I'm throwing in jail." She stalked off, leaving Lucas to stare after her, mourning another lost opportunity.

"You know, mooning after her isn't going to get you anywhere. Not with that one. That big girl needs a man who can take what he wants."

He turned to look at Isabela, startled. "What do you mean?"

"What do you think, I'm blind? I can see how you stare after her, like you're trying to decide which cut to sample first." She tilted her head to the side, studying Aveline's departing backside. "Me, I might go for the haunches. She's got nice thighs under all that armor."

"Are you talking about …"

"Eating her, mm-hm. I bet she's tasty." Isabela gave him a wicked grin.

"Isabela." Lucas groaned.

"Then dance with me, if you want to keep me quiet."

He looked out onto the dance floor. It was a relatively staid set—he was surprised Isabela wanted to dance to such a tame piece of music. "If you want to."

She shrugged, making him wonder how firmly that dress was held up and if another shrug would loosen her breasts from their tight binding. "We're here, after all."

It took only a moment to get into the rhythm. Lucas had always enjoyed dancing, and he did it well. Isabela murmured appreciatively in the back of her throat as he executed a set of steps not only perfectly but with a semblance of panache.

"Don't get any ideas," he said to her.

She pouted. "I don't know why not. You're an adult, I'm an adult, and I know I'm good in bed. Worried about your performance, Hawke?" Her eyes sparkled wickedly up at him, and he had to admit that kissing her sounded like a pretty good idea right about now.

Lucas grinned at her. "I'm sure I can keep up with you."

"Are you now? Not many can, you know."

"Maybe you pick the wrong ones."

He could almost see the bantering response freeze on her lips, her eyes opening just a little wider. "Maybe I do."

There was an opening there, an invitation for him to take it a step further, to ask her what she meant … but he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know. Not right now. He looked over her shoulder. "Oh, look, there's Mother."

The remark hadn't been intended to be a bucket of icy water down Isabela's dress, but she apparently took it as one. She dropped his hand in the middle of the dance. "I'm sure you'll want to go speak to her. I think I'll get a drink."

"Isabela!"

"Catch you later, Hawke."

Well. He could go after her, he supposed, or he could go see to his mother, who appeared to be speaking with the Seneschal. After all, he thought, he was here mostly so his mother could introduce him to some nice girls. Might as well give her the opportunity. He crossed the room to stand at his mother's side.

"Lucas, my dear! You remember Seneschal Bran."

The little man gave him a frosty nod, but it wasn't nearly as cold as Isabela had been.

"Very nice soiree, Seneschal."

"It was. Excuse me." With a warmer nod for Lucas's mother, the Seneschal went off in search of more congenial conversation. Lucas and his mother wandered through the crowd for a little while, chatting with the other guests. Lucas hoped to drum up a little work of the non-mercenary variety, but no one seemed to be looking for anyone with his particular set of skills. Actually, other than mowing people down with a giant sword, he wasn't entirely sure what his set of skills might be. His mother devoutly believed he could do anything he set his mind to, but he knew better.

They paused to watch the dancers, and his mother turned to him. "That reminds me. Who was that you were dancing with earlier, darling?"

"Lady Lavinia Peabody." The lie came out before he had time to think about it, and once out, he could cheerfully have cut out his own tongue.

"Oh. I don't think I've heard that name before. Is she from Kirkwall?"

"Uh … Cumberland, actually." Why was he doing this? Because his mother would have been shocked and disappointed to find out he'd brought his pirate companion as a date when he was supposed to be finding a suitable woman? Possibly, but he didn't think that was all. If that was all, he could tell her the truth, and he didn't seem capable of that for the moment. "She's in town visiting friends."

"How nice. Can I meet her?"

"I don't know if she's interested in seeing me again."

"Of course she is, darling. How could she not be?" His mother patted him on the arm. Fortunately, before she could press him on the question of meeting the false Lady Lavinia, an acquaintance claimed her attention and she headed off in that direction.

"Amateur."

Lucas whirled around to see Varric grinning up at him, a plate of nug kabobs in his hand. "What are you talking about?"

"You know. Lady Lavinia Peabody. That was the best name you could come up with? If you wanted to pass Rivaini off as a posh patrician, you should have asked me. We could have created a persona."

"Wipe that smirk off your face. I don't know why I said that, but we've seen the last of Lady Lavinia. After tonight, it'll be like she never existed."

"She never did exist."

"Exactly."

Varric shook his head. "Hawke, you have this entire town fooled. Everyone thinks you know exactly what you're doing, and you really have no clue, do you?"

He wasn't dignifying that shot with an answer.

"Well, whatever you want to say, you've pissed Rivaini off. I think you're going to want to go apologize, unless you want 'Lady Lavinia' to start stripping in the middle of the party."

"She what?"

Varric's chuckle floated after him as he rushed off to find Isabela. He barely registered passing Aveline, who was talking with the guard at the front door. Lucas hoped there was nothing about to go wrong with the party. He supposed Aveline knew where he was if she needed any help.

He spotted the blue silk dress and the elegant column of Isabela's tanned neck as she stood sipping at a fluted glass of champagne. He'd never noticed how slender and well-shaped it was before—her hair usually covered it. "Isabela."

She turned around. "Hawke! Sorry I got in a snit earlier. It was … silly of me."

"I'm sorry, as well. I wasn't listening to you."

"Who does?" Isabela shrugged. "I shouldn't have gotten heavy on you." She looked around, appearing as ill-at-ease as he'd ever seen her. "Look, I should go."

"I'll walk you back to Lowtown."

"Nah. I can handle myself."

"Wouldn't want your dress getting ruined, though."

"Well, when you put it that way." She smiled, and slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow.

As they stood waiting for Isabela's cloak, they heard the voice Lucas had been dreading behind them. "Darling boy, you're not leaving already, are you?"

Quickly he whispered into Isabela's ear. "Your name is Lady Lavinia Peabody. Play along, and I'll explain later."

"All right, but you owe me one."

Oh, he was going to regret this. "Fine. Also, you're from Cumberland."

"Why in the world am I—"

"Lady Lavinia Peabody?" Hawke's mother came up to them, holding out her hand. Isabela shook it.

"And you are?" Her accent was awful; hoity-toity and not like Cumberland at all. Lucas was hard put not to wince.

"Leandra Amell … Hawke. I'm so pleased to meet you."

"Same here."

Lucas noticed that his mother was peering at Isabela closely, and he hurried to distract her. "Mother, we were just—I mean, Lady Lavinia is off early in the morning, so I was going to walk her back to her friends' house."

"Oh. Leaving Kirkwall so soon, dear? I'm sorry to hear that."

"Well, I might be back." Isabela's eyes held a twinkle Lucas didn't entirely like. "It depends on whether Serah Hawke and I can come to an … understanding."

No, he definitely didn't like that twinkle. Especially not when his mother caught her breath. "An understanding? Oh, my. Well, don't let me stop you. Next time you're in Kirkwall, Lady Lavinia, I hope you'll come to dinner."

"That would be lovely, thank you."

Thank the Maker Isabela's cloak was delivered. Lucas grabbed it hastily, wrapping it around her. "Let's go, Lady Lavinia," he growled.

She had the grace to wait until they were outside before she burst into laughter. "You should have seen your face. Any particular reason why you needed to invent a new identity for me?"

"Mother wants me to meet a nice young lady and settle down and have babies. If she'd known I came with you, she would have insisted on introducing me around … and I'm really not in the mood to meet any 'nice young ladies'."

"Not itching for the patter of little feet, Hawke?"

"Not at the moment. Someday, maybe." _When I know what I'm doing_, he added silently to himself.

They walked together in unusual silence down the Lowtown stairs. At the bottom, Isabela turned to look up at him. "All right, Hawke, time to pay up."

"Pay?"

"You owe me one. For Lady Lavinia."

"Oh. What, exactly, do you want?" he asked warily. Knowing her, it could be anything from a night in bed to the Viscount's crown.

"A kiss."

"No, really."

"I mean it. One kiss."

"What's the catch?"

There was something vulnerable in her eyes in the lamplight. "I want you to kiss me …" she took a deep breath. "The way you would kiss the kind of woman who would wear this dress."

"Ah. I see." Why was he feeling short of breath? Was it excitement, or fear? "And I assume you'd like to do this now?"

"So formal. Yes, I want to do it now. You sound like a sailor getting a splinter out of his finger," she grumbled.

"Sorry." It was awkward, this, standing here and preparing to kiss her. And then, as she lifted her face to him, her amber eyes reflecting the light from the lamps, it suddenly wasn't awkward at all. Lucas slid an arm around her waist under the cloak, pulling her against him, watching with fascination as her lips parted just slightly, her head falling back on her shoulders. He bent, touching her lips lightly with his. For a moment, he considered ending it there, telling her that was how he would kiss the kind of woman she was pretending to be, but he found he didn't want to. Instead, he traced her bottom lip with his tongue before venturing inside her mouth. Isabela was trembling against him, no doubt from the strain of remaining passive and allowing herself to be kissed, he thought. Her tongue met his lightly, little touches that made him want more. He pulled her hard against him, exploring her mouth thoroughly. The taste of champagne was as heady as if he had drunk it himself. Her gloved hand clutched his upper arm.

An outcry from a nearby alley broke them apart. Isabela seemed to recover quickest, her hand going to a dagger hidden inside her bodice—although where it could have been concealed was beyond Lucas. Nothing came of the cry but two drunken prostitutes staggering out of the alley.

They were left alone, staring at each other. "Was that what you wanted?" he asked, his breathing finally back under control.

She didn't answer. "Good-night, Hawke."

"Good-night." He would never, ever understand women, he thought, taking the stairs two at a time back up to Hightown.


	10. Not on Your Tintop

_Many thanks to all of you for reading! Special thanks to my excellent beta, Oleander's One._

* * *

Lucas felt pretty good when he got up in the morning. Apparently fancy parties were better for a person than drinking wine with Fenris or ale with Varric half the night. What a concept. He buckled on his armor, keeping his thoughts as far from the woman who hovered near the center of them as he could. He had kissed Isabela, yes, but it wasn't going to happen again, and it hadn't meant anything. Not to him, and certainly not to her. He knew too well how she operated to have any illusions there.

He finished buckling on his armor and headed for the kitchen, plucking a scone from the plate Sandal was preparing.

"Enchantment!" the dwarf said. Lucas raised the scone to him in salute—although it occurred to him to wonder if Sandal could enchant a scone, and if so, what kind of enchanted scone he might be eating.

It was a lovely day outside, and Hightown was absolutely silent. Clearly Lucas had gone home from that party a lot earlier than the rest of the guests had.

He was going to need help if he was going out to Smuggler's Cut to track down Javaris. Fenris wouldn't be awake this early in the morning; Aveline would undoubtedly have duties, as would Sebastian. He would have to start the morning where he always started—in the Hanged Man, with Varric. Part of him dreaded the inevitable moment when he would run into Isabela, but the part of him that was filled with an almost electric thrum of excitement wasn't dreading it all. All the way down the long stairs, he gave himself a stern talking to. Isabela took no man seriously; he had no interest in becoming a notch on whatever passed for her bedpost. Surely his interest was kindled more by the new sides to her personality he was discovering, and by friendship. Yes, they would be better friends now, he thought. That was all.

Varric was still in bed, according to Corff. Not for the first time, Lucas wondered who the dwarf took to bed—other than his crossbow. He'd never seen Varric express a particular interest in any woman. Or man, for that matter. As he climbed the stairs, he hoped devoutly that this wouldn't be the day he found out.

"Rise and shine, Tethras." He knocked on the door for good measure before walking in.

The dwarf was sitting up in bed with a steaming cup of black coffee in his hands. Bianca lay on the pillow next to him, precisely as if she had slept there all night.

Lucas shook his head. "Fenris was right. You are a strange, hairy little man."

"Takes one to know one, Hawke," Varric shot back. "I was surprised to find Rivaini here when I got back, down in the bar as always … and you all the way up in Hightown."

"You know, just because I went out with Isabela doesn't mean I was going to sleep with her."

"It has for everyone else she's ever gone out with—what's the matter with you, Hawke?"

Lucas crossed his arms, leaning against the wall, and stared down at the dwarf in confusion. "Varric, is there some reason you—No. Absolutely not. There will be no stories of me in a frilly white pirate shirt ripping off Isabela's clothes!"

"I like to write from life."

"You do not!"

"I absolutely do." Varric looked affronted. "Look, maybe I embroider a little, but the base fabric is always the truth."

"Is that what you'll tell Aveline when she finds out about that story of her and her guardsman?"

The dwarf smirked. "What makes you think that isn't based on a true story?"

"I know Aveline. She would never touch one of her men—she'd think it was inappropriate."

"She might not do it, but that doesn't mean she doesn't want to."

"Aveline?" Varric was unmoved by Lucas's incredulity, and Lucas decided to let the whole subject go. "Look, we need to get out to Smuggler's Cut. Would you mind getting out of bed and coming with me?"

"Well, when you put it like that." The dwarf climbed out from under the covers, finding his pants and tugging them on under the nightshirt he wore. Lucas would have preferred not to know that Varric didn't wear smallclothes. He turned his back for the rest of the dwarf's ablutions. "Who we taking this morning, Hawke?"

"Looks like it'll have to be Merrill. She'll be up, don't you think?"

"Daisy will be fresh as one, no doubt about it, and happy to get outside the city walls. Rivaini's been around this morning, too."

"How do you know?"

"There was a scuffle downstairs."

"The Hanged Man's known for lots of scuffles."

"Name three that Rivaini hasn't been involved in."

Lucas turned around, meeting Varric's twinkling gaze. "Do you ever worry that someone's going to assassinate you?"

"Me? I'm just a businessman, living in a bar. What could I possibly know about anything? You ready, Hawke?"

"Yes, so sorry you've been having to wait for me," Lucas said drily, following Varric. They knocked on Isabela's door down the hall.

"Smuggler's Cut, eh?" she called. "Just grabbing a few more knives."

"Don't you already carry ten or twelve?"

One amber eye came into view through the crack in the door, the one Lucas had suddenly found his own eye pressed up against, trying to sneak a peek inside. Isabela's eye twinkled at him. "Come on, Hawke, ten or twelve? You know me better than that." Hastily he stepped back and she opened the door. "Of course, anytime you want to count my knives, Hawke, I'm at your service."

It was both strange and relieving to see her in her usual clothes again. He couldn't quite get the picture of the elegant woman he had escorted the night before out of his mind. Somehow it was hard to see the familiar pirate as the same person.

He shook off the abstraction. "Let's go, then," he said brusquely, leading the way down the hallway.

They picked up Merrill in the alienage. As Varric had predicted, the elf was glad to get out of Kirkwall for a little while. Lucas was never entirely sure about Merrill; he liked her well enough, but the possibility of blood magic always hovered when she was in combat, and ultimately he didn't trust her not to eventually fall to a demon's whispers. Isabela was quite fond of her, though, as was Varric, and their instincts about people were usually trustworthy.

The way to Smuggler's Cut started through a tunnel built in Darktown; it was a fairly easy fit for his companions, but a tight squeeze for Lucas. He let the rest of the party go first, feeling quite vulnerable bringing up the rear, bent over as he was to fit into the low tunnel. You had to be a dedicated smuggler—or a dwarf—to put up with this kind of thing.

The highlight of the tunnel was all the boxes and chests strewn around. They didn't poke into all of them, but they looked at enough to be entertained by the wide variety of items contained within them. As he started to close the lid of a chest, Lucas saw a faint gleam in the bottom as something reflective caught the torchlight. He reached in and pulled out a small bottle, with an exquisitely detailed little ship inside it.

He started to call out to Isabela—it seemed like the kind of thing she would like to have—then for some reason thought better of it. He tucked the ship safely away; he would sort out his reasons for bringing it with him later.

After what seemed like half an age, they finally emerged onto a rocky stretch of sand not far from the Wounded Coast—and were immediately attacked by a company of mercenaries. Lucas was glad the others were in front: Isabela's daggers were instantly accessible, as was Merrill's magic, and Bianca was an extension of Varric's arm. His own sword was out as soon as he could stand up straight, but the others were in the thick of combat by that point. Lucas was mostly the clean-up crew, which he didn't mind at all.

Once all the mercenaries were down, Varric approached a small, cowering figure hiding behind some bushes. "Get up, Tintop."

The merchant stood up, looking over Varric's shoulder at Lucas. "Aw, it's you. Blasted dog-lord, did you have to kill all my men?"

"Did they have to attack me?" Lucas asked reasonably. "Hello, Javaris."

The dwarf snorted. "Keep it for a dwarf who cares. You knew these were my men and you cut 'em down anyway."

"Should've ponied up for better quality fighters, shouldn't you?" Isabela asked. She flipped one of her daggers end over end, the blade flashing in the sunlight.

Lucas nodded. "True enough—you get what you pay for."

"Who can I pay to get rid of you?"

"No one. I'm in your face until I get my answers."

Javaris sighed. "Granny's garters, she would hire you, of all people. I can't buy a break on discount."

"Maybe if you paid more," Varric muttered under his breath, earning himself a glare from Javaris.

"You know what, go ahead. Pike my head back to that sodding elf. I need the rest. What'd she tell you, anyway?"

"Elf?" Varric echoed. "What elf?"

"What do you mean, what elf? The one who—Oh, sod it all. You're bird-dogging for the Qunari? Bitch-born elf really did it, then."

Lucas moved closer to the dwarf, letting his height speak for him. "Javaris, either tell me what you're babbling about or tell me what you did with the formula."

"Hey, stay back. I'm talkin'." Javaris took a few steps deeper into the bushes.

"Merrill, make sure he stays there," Lucas said.

"Of course, Hawke." Roots burst from the ground and entwined themselves around Javaris's legs.

"Hey!"

"Talk fast, and she'll let you go."

"All right, so I'm minding my own business, same old, you know."

"There's nothing 'same old' about you minding your own business," Varric muttered.

"Whatever." The two dwarves glared at each other, until Lucas snapped, "Javaris."

"Right. Elf comes along, says she stole somethin' from the Qunari, she's gonna blame me for it. I say 'not a chance', she says 'already done'. I grab some men, get out of there." He looked around at the bodies of his men. "Shoulda grabbed more men."

"Or better quality." Lucas frowned. "What elf?"

"I don't know. They all look alike."

"Where is she then?" Isabela asked. She appeared to lose control of the dagger she was flipping, and it landed an inch from Javaris's toes. "Oops. Did I do that?"

"Scuff these boots and you'll be buying me new ones."

"What did those cost, a whole copper? I think I can spare the coin."

"The elf, Javaris!" Lucas snapped. "Where is she?"

"How am I supposed to know?"

"She framed you for stealing a Qunari formula. You may be incompetent, but you do like to look out for number one, and that means knowing where she is."

Javaris frowned. "You're not as dumb as you look. Elf's in Lowtown, not far from the stairs down to the docks. I had a guy tail her."

"You better be telling the truth."

"Or what? You'll come back here and kill my guards? Thanks for that."

"Thedas isn't big enough for the both of us, Javaris," Lucas said. "Make yourself smaller."

"Yeah, I'll just do that." The roots receded and the dwarf moved to the nearest body. As Javaris frisked the bodies of the dead mercenaries for whatever saleable—and portable—things they had on them, Lucas gestured for the others to follow him.

"Back to Lowtown, Hawke?" Isabela asked.

"Yes, no time like the present, is there?" He sighed, looking at the tunnel entrance and not relishing going back the way they'd come. "Let's get it over with."


	11. The Green Fog

_Thanks for reading, everyone, and particular thanks to Oleander's One for the lightning-fast beta! You rock!_

* * *

By the time they made it through the tunnel and emerged from Darktown, sweaty, smelly, and exhausted, it was beginning to get late in the day. "What do you think, Hawke?" Varric asked. "Too late?"

"Whoever this elf is—assuming she exists and Javaris didn't just play us—I don't think she can be trusted to wait much longer. We should go find her tonight, before she does something we'll all regret." Lucas glanced at Isabela and Merrill. "You two with me?"

"Sure."

"Of course, Hawke!"

He rather hoped, if the elf existed, that she would get mouthy. It had been a long day, and he looked forward to a fight to stretch his muscles after hours bent over in that cramped tunnel. They went toward the stairs leading down to the docks, as Javaris had said, but they wouldn't have needed the dwarf's directions. A stream of people came running past them, many of them coughing and holding their hands over their mouths.

"She made the formula," Varric said with resignation.

"Looks that way." Lucas pushed his way through the fleeing crowd, the others following in his wake. He recognized one of Aveline's guardsmen, Maecon if his memory served correctly, coming out of an alley half-carrying an old man. "What's happened here?"

"Serah Hawke?" Maecon looked confused, then his head seemed to clear and he stood up straighter. The old man tottered away as fast as his legs could carry him. "What are you doing here?" the guardsman asked.

"It's a long story. What happened here? Why are all these people running?"

"I don't rightly know, serah. Somehow the air—it's poisoning people. There was a cloud that came out and it surrounded everyone. I … There are still people back there. In the alley. Killing each other. It's like they've gone crazy. I'd stop them but … I can't fight the damned air, serah." He shook his head.

"Let me by, then. And stay back." Ordinarily Lucas would have been more courteous, but he was tired and frustrated, and time appeared to be of the essence.

As it became clear that Lucas and his team intended to go back into the alley, Maecon rushed in front of him, his eyes wide. "Maker, please, wait, Messere Hawke! That street is death, don't you understand? All I can do is warn people. If someone like you dies on my watch, I'm right stuffed."

"Well, we can't have that," Isabela drawled.

Lucas frowned at the guardsman. Aveline surely couldn't have trained him to be such a milktoast. "Then I suggest you pray to the Maker that I don't die. Meanwhile, get out of my way."

Still muttering to himself, Maecon moved aside. Lucas glanced over his shoulder at the others. "I suggest we try not to breathe."

None of them bothered to point out the impossibility inherent in that suggestion. They all just nodded, looking grim. Lucas led the way into the alley, seeing tendrils of some kind of green fog stretching across the ground toward him. Well, this wasn't going to be good.

The alley gave way to a street, cloudy with gas, that appeared to be deserted at first. In a corner, a barrel spewed the green fog. A man lay in front of the barrel with a metal latch lying a few inches from his outstretched hand. A knife jutted from his back.

Lucas coughed as the mist swirled around him, its sharp, acrid smell turning his stomach.

"Hawke, you think that latch closes the barrel?"

"Try it," he snapped at Varric. What was the dwarf asking stupid questions for?

Varric picked up the latch, wrestling with the lid of the barrel until he got it firmly closed. Immediately the flow of the gas stopped and the alley began to clear.

"Was that all of it, then?" Merrill asked, looking around.

"'Fraid not, kitten." Isabela gestured toward a side street with an open courtyard. The fog had covered the street, and they could see people fighting each other. Not just the armored mercenaries they would have expected, but housewives with sharp knives and an older man swinging his cane viciously at anyone who came near him.

"Let's try not to kill anyone if we can avoid it," Lucas said.

The other three nodded, although all of them knew how difficult it could be to deflect an attack from someone who wasn't rational.

Lucas took a deep breath and moved into the courtyard, great blade held high above his head. He slammed the pommel into the head of a civilian who lunged at him with a club. The man dropped to the ground, and Lucas kept going. He could see two barrels in the corners of the courtyard, both of them spewing forth clouds of green gas. How much could one barrel hold? Enough to coat the ground with the noxious stuff. The fumes rose up, filling his head with a buzzing sound that was absolutely maddening, and he slammed the flat of his blade right and left into those who came toward him. He felt strong and powerful and he relished each blow.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Varric pick up another metal latch, wrestling it onto one of the barrels, and he saw Merrill reach out a hand to clobber Varric in the back of the head with a fist made out of earth and cobblestones wrenched from the ground. Out of nowhere, Isabela appeared behind Merrill, grasping the mage around the waist and dragging her, kicking and struggling, out of the reach of the poison.

Lucas struggled against the rage that was rising in him with the buzzing sound in his ears, searching through the red haze for the other barrel. Was there another latch there? A mercenary appeared in front of him, chanting something. Lucas strained to understand the words: "make the powder, blame the oxmen; make the powder, blame the oxmen". But it was too difficult to comprehend. Powder? Oxmen? He cut the man down without a second thought.

"The Arishok was right," said a voice next to him. "The poison got the thieves."

Who was that mouthy little dwarf talking to? Why didn't he just shut up? Lucas bared his teeth, swinging his sword at an oncoming person and paying little attention to the backswing that almost clipped the top of the dwarf's head.

"Hey, Hawke, watch it!" The beardless little bastard was glaring at him now.

"You watch it, shorty."

"Both of you, shut up before I kill you," said a woman's voice. Isabela was kneeling next to the man Hawke had just killed, pulling something shiny and metallic out of his pocket. As she looked up at him, Hawke couldn't help imagining blood, rich and red, running down her face. He started to move, the sword lifting off his shoulder and coming down—

Just as he realized what he was doing and deflected the blade, staggering as he unbalanced himself, Isabela rolled to the side. She came up with a dagger in her hand, flinging it at his head. It glanced off his upraised gauntlet.

Varric grasped the metal latch that had fallen from Isabela's hands, sprinting for the barrel. Lucas watched him go disinterestedly. The fumes from the gas were overpowering now, and it was hard to stand upright. He blinked, blessed darkness filling his vision.

When he came to, Isabela had his arm over her shoulders. "Straighten up, big guy. We're not done with you yet." She was half-carrying, half-dragging him out of the way of the fog, which was dissipating now that the barrel was closed.

"What happened?"

"Took you down from the inside," Varric said on his other side. He was carrying Lucas's sword. "Never thought I'd live to see the day. You and Rivaini here nearly killed each other first. That's no way to end a story."

"It didn't seem to affect you, though," Lucas said, frowning at the dwarf.

Varric shrugged. "Qunari and dwarves don't mix much. Could be something in their formula doesn't work as well on me. Who knows."

"You missed, you know," Isabela said softly, very close to his ear.

"Thank the Maker."

"Not exactly what I would have said, but … thanks for that."

"Yes, let's all be grateful that I have bad aim," he said drily.

Isabela glanced at him, her amber eyes narrowed, then looked away.

"Serah Hawke?"

It was a new voice from behind them, and Lucas turned, shrugging off Isabela's arm so he could stand on his own. He felt strangely cold without it, a sensation he put away to think about some other time. There was an elf standing before him, a thin, sickly-looking elf, whose fever-bright green eyes were lit with triumph.

"I can't believe we caught someone like you. I'm glad." She looked around at the courtyard, where the clearing fog had revealed a number of bodies lying sprawled on the ground. "These poor people." She coughed. "Someone like you makes a much better target."

"Care to explain your particular brand of crazy?" Isabela snapped. "Or should we just kill you on general principles?"

The elf coughed again. "My people," she whispered. "They lose their culture, taken from them by humans and Chantry. They go to the Qunari for purpose and lose their selves. So we set up the Qunari, to take the blame for this disaster and cause the people of Kirkwall to rise up against them, driving them from here once and for all."

"All in favor," Isabela muttered. Lucas glared at her. She avoided his gaze, her mouth set in a stubborn line.

"Who put you up to this?" Lucas asked.

The elf coughed again, hard, leaning against a building for balance. "They will enrage the faithful." Her voice was weakening, her knees sagging beneath her.

"'Enrage the faithful'?" Varric echoed. "Who does that sound like?"

Isabela groaned. "Sister Petrice again? I thought we'd seen the last of that hag."

The elf had slumped into a sitting position, her breath a harsh wheeze. And then it stopped altogether.

"What do you think was wrong with her?" Lucas asked.

"I wouldn't put it past the oxmen to make the compound toxic, so whoever makes it dies," Isabela said darkly.

"I'm with Rivaini. Sounds like something the Arishok would do."

"Let's notify Guardsman Maecon, get him to call Aveline to clean this up. Carefully, so no one else is hurt."

Lucas insisted on waiting to make sure the clean-up was finished to his satisfaction. When Aveline arrived, she wasn't pleased to have him hanging around looking over her shoulder, and she let him know as much in no uncertain terms. Varric and Isabela had left already, no doubt to go back to the Hanged Man, bathe, and drown their cares. Merrill had appeared to apologize, her fair skin flushing with the embarrassment of having nearly killed Varric. Lucas had pointed out that maybe she should apologize to the dwarf instead of to him, which caused Merrill to turn fluttery and uncertain, but she promised to do so as soon as she felt up to it. If asked, Lucas would have thought he would have been a much harder person to apologize to than Varric. Then again, if he'd turned on Varric and nearly killed him, he wasn't sure what he'd have said to the dwarf, either.

Which made him think of Isabela, whom he had actually turned on and tried to kill. He should say something to her. He wanted to—but what to say? Other than, "gosh, I'm sorry I swung at your head." They fought together; she knew what he was capable of. And she had been susceptible to the gas, too, he told himself.

"Hawke," Aveline said sharply. "You're asleep on your feet. Go home and get yourself cleaned up."

"What? Oh. Right. Yes." He nodded, turning obediently in the direction she had pointed, but somehow the stairs up to Hightown seemed very long, and the Hanged Man was nearby, warm and welcoming. Maybe by the time he reached it he would have thought of what to say to Isabela.


	12. Aftermath

_Thanks for sticking with me, one and all! I know the erratic update schedule has been frustrating - it has for me, as well - and so I've made some changes to my overall update schedule and will now be posting this every other Weds. (It will alternate with "A Future to Be Had", for those of you also reading that story.) Super extra special thanks to Oleander's One for her enthusiasm, friendship, and excellent betaing!  
_

* * *

Lucas pushed open the door of the Hanged Man. The typically raucous sounds coming from inside weren't quite what his throbbing head needed, but they were familiar, at least, and none of them were aimed at him—unlike what he would face in the comparative quiet of his own home, where he would have to answer a lot of questions. The very idea made him tired.

He was accosted almost immediately by Devens, a regular who wandered around talking to no one in particular. "Are you one of them?" Devens asked.

"One of whom?"

"Them."

"Oh. Not today."

"Good." Devens wandered off, addressing his monologue to the next person he bumped into.

To his surprise, Lucas found Merrill there, sitting at a table with Isabela and playing a hand of Wicked Grace. The elf couldn't keep her mind on her cards long enough to pay attention to the game; she always lost, even against people far less skilled than Isabela. He couldn't figure out why Merrill would have chosen to play cards with Isabela, or how she had gotten here so much ahead of him, much less why she would have come if she was determined to avoid Varric. The whole set of questions made his head hurt. He should have gone home, he thought, gone to bed. But then he would have had to face his mother's questions, tell her all about his day and the Qunari and the poison gas. She had been through enough—she didn't need to know the slimy details of the dark underground of Kirkwall. It made Lucas feel good to know that Varric had men keeping an eye on his mother as she helped Lirene and the Fereldan refugees; he worked and slept far better knowing that her welfare was seen to.

As he approached their table, Merrill looked at her cards with a sad face, then put them down. Isabela winked at the elf, pulling in the pile of winnings. She picked a small wooden object out of the pile and turned it around in her hand, studying it.

"Isabela, why do you always win at cards?" Merrill asked. From anyone else it might have sounded whiny, but Merrill genuinely wanted to know. Lucas paused, interested in how Isabela would answer and not wanting to distract the pirate with his presence.

Still looking at the wooden object in her hands, Isabela answered, "Because I cheat, kitten." She met Merrill's eyes across the table. "Never bet anything you're not prepared to lose. This trinket—it's elven, isn't it? From your clan?" Isabela tossed it across the table in a swift flick that looked casual, but the wooden carving landed squarely in Merrill's palm. "Have it back. And don't hazard it again, not unless you're absolutely sure your hand is the best."

Merrill nodded, her fingers closing over the object. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me. There's no fun in taking something you didn't earn."

The elf frowned, looking confused, and Lucas couldn't stay out of the conversation any longer. "She means beating you at cards didn't take a lot of work." He put a comforting hand on Merrill's shoulder. "Don't worry—she says that about most people. Very few can give her a challenge in a card game."

"Oh, Hawke! You're here." Flustered, Merrill got up. "I should … go."

She hurried out of the Hanged Man, clutching her token.

"What was she doing playing cards with you?" Lucas asked. He couldn't quite meet Isabela's gaze, which appeared to amuse her.

"Trying to work up the nerve to apologize to Varric."

"Did she?"

"Not yet. I waylaid her—figured that conversation would go better after a night's rest. Varric's having a bath, anyway, and I don't think anyone wanted that sweet little kitten to die of embarrassment walking in on him." She chuckled.

"Speaking of …"

"Embarrassment? Baths? Or dying?"

Lucas couldn't help but laugh. "Actually, all three are important topics at the moment."

"You hope you don't embarrass me by dying while we're taking a bath together?" Her golden eyes met his, and he swallowed, unable to stop himself from picturing Isabela's tanned curves dripping wet in a bath.

With an effort, he put the image out of his mind. "No, I desperately need a bath, and I am embarrassed that I almost killed you."

"Pretty ham-handed way to work in an apology."

"I'm not good at subtle."

"No kidding." She smiled, though, and pointed to the seat across from her. "Sit down, Hawke, before you fall down. That was some powerful stuff—you weren't prepared for its effects, and it took its toll on you. Better that you tried your skill on me than on someone who couldn't have gotten out of your way so easily."

"Kind of like you fleecing Merrill at cards, then?" He sank onto the bench, sighing in relief. Sitting down felt good.

"Better me than someone who wouldn't give her back her toys, yep."

"I've seen you get a lot of fun out of taking things you didn't earn before."

"Not from a friend. It's one thing to win from Varric—that's a challenge—but not from her."

"You're quite the woman, Isabela."

"Took you long enough to notice."

Their eyes met, the air feeling heavy around Lucas under the weight of her gaze. If Norah the waitress hadn't come by, he didn't know what he would have said.

"Jigger of your finest whiskey for my friend here," Isabela said. As Norah moved away again, retrieving a bottle from the bar, she added, "The Hanged Man's finest isn't much, but it'll get you just as drunk as anything you'll find in Hightown."

"Drunker, I imagine," Lucas said. "But I think the last thing I need in my state is to get drunk."

"You should have more fun, Hawke. Get the stick out of your arse occasionally."

He sighed. "Someday."

Norah set the bottle down with two glasses. Isabela lifted it, giving him a questioning look as the lip of the bottle hovered over his glass, but he shook his head firmly. "More for me, then." She poured, drank, and poured again. Sitting back, staring into the liquid at the bottom of the glass, she said, "You know, Hawke, I thought I was going to have to watch myself around you, but it turns out, you're all right."

"Am I? You know, that's mildly insulting."

"You know what I mean. You're not afraid to get your hands dirty, you don't short the weights when dividing the coin, and you don't poke your nose into affairs that don't concern you."

He snorted. "Not unless some big guy with horns shoves my nose into his affairs. Mostly, I just want to keep my nose clean, and Kirkwall seems determined not to let me achieve that goal."

"You say that, but I've seen you. Anytime one of us has a problem, you're right there. If I'd had someone like you on my ship when the—storm hit, maybe we wouldn't have been shipwrecked."

Lucas toyed with his empty glass, seeing Carver in his mind's eye, his sword waving bravely in the air as the darkspawn closed around him, and Bethany with the streaks of taint marring her beautiful skin. "Thinking about what might have been is pointless."

Isabela gave a harsh, mirthless laugh. "You're right; what was I thinking?" She tossed off the contents of her glass. "Forget the past, celebrate the present."

Present. Why did that make him think of something? Oh, yes. He dug inside his breastplate and took out the exquisitely carved ship in a bottle he had found in the tunnel. "That reminds me—I found this. Thought you might like it."

"Ooh, isn't that just the cutest thing?" Isabela took it from his grasp, studying the ship inside with a critical eye. "That's a good job; got all the details right. Makes me wish I was on her right now, sailing along over the waves with the wind and the sea spray in my face. Ever been on the ocean, Hawke?"

"Does the journey to Kirkwall count?"

"No." She looked disgusted at the very thought.

"Then, no."

"Someday I'll have my ship, and I'll take you on my first voyage. You can be first mate. Or cabin decoration." She winked at him.

"I'm not sure I'd be very good at either."

"You won't know if you don't try."

"Isabela."

"Hawke."

As they stared at each other across the table, the memory of their kiss came back to him. Would it hurt to accept, just once, everything she offered? He was so tired, so lonely, so weary of carrying everyone else's burdens and never having the chance to rest. Surely for one night he could forget all that in the all-too-willing arms of the beautiful woman across the table.

Isabela must have seen the change in his eyes, because she stood up, dropping a coin on the table to pay for the bottle of whiskey. "Come on upstairs. I'm going to order you a hot bath, and then … we'll see what kind of fun we can get up to."

He allowed her to lead him up the stairs to her room, and stripped off his armor while she ordered the bath. There was an unspoken accord between them that neither one had any interest in proceeding while he still smelled of blood and vitriol and the last remnants of that Qunari poison. If she watched him as he sank into the hot water, he wasn't aware of it. Behind him he could hear her shuffling cards, and she kept up a running monologue of interesting hands she had played as she was learning the proper way to cheat. Lucas found himself laughing at some of her stories and asked a few questions. It felt startlingly natural to be here with her, sluicing the water over his shoulders while they chatted like old friends. Or old lovers.

Once he was clean and dry, he wrapped the towel around his hips, knotting it in place. Isabela's eyes roamed over his broad chest, sprinkled with dark hair, and down to where the hair formed a thicker trail below the line of the towel. "My, my. I see lifting that sword certainly does nice things for the muscles," she said.

"Hm." Now that he was here in her room, practically naked, Lucas felt unaccountably nervous. He'd done this before, many times, but mostly he kept it to the women of the Blooming Rose, preferring practiced anonymity and the simplicity of coin given for pleasure received.

She put the cards down next to her, shifting on her perch atop the dresser. "Don't get shy on me now, big boy." There was something in her voice, though. She wasn't as certain as she sounded. That should have been reassuring … but it wasn't. It made him all the more nervous. Was he making an incredible mistake? He'd avoided this for so long, dancing out of range of her suggestions and innuendos. Maybe he should have kept moving.

Isabela pulled off her boots, crossing the room to him. She seemed so small in her bare feet, so vulnerable, and something in her eyes as she lifted her face to him seemed almost afraid, as though she was just waiting for the rejection she was sure was coming. Without further thought, Lucas took her face in his hands and bent to kiss her.

Her soft lips parted for him, her tongue touching his lightly at first, and then with more boldness. He was barely aware of shuffling toward the bed, their mouths still joined, or of stretching out on the remarkably comfortable mattress—not what he would have expected of the Hanged Man at all, he thought hazily. Isabela tucked herself into the curve of his body, and the warm, soft kisses went on and on …

Until Lucas awoke the next morning in unattractive mid-snore to find a very irritated pirate staring down at him as he sprawled across her bed, the towel still firmly anchored around his waist.


	13. Women

_My apologies for missing yesterday's scheduled posting date. I was internet-less for the whole day - the horror! Tremendous thanks to Oleander's One for her patience and speedy betaing._

* * *

"Get out," Isabela said.

"Wha?" Lucas blinked and rubbed his face, sitting on the side of the bed and trying to think. That gas must have taken more out of him than he'd known, if he'd fallen asleep in bed with Isabela. No wonder she was looking at him like the cockroach under her boot heel. His reflections were interrupted by his breastplate being thrown at him; he just managed to move aside before the large piece of metal landed in his unprotected lap.

"Get dressed, and get out. You're lucky it's my reputation on the line, too, or I'd keep your bloody armor and let you walk out of here in that towel. Come to think of it, the towel belongs to the Hanged Man, so I'd have had to take that, too." There was no humor in the smirk on her face, and Lucas hastily did as he was told, muttering an embarrassed "excuse me" as he had to brush past her to pick up his smalls.

Isabela didn't budge the entire time, standing there with her arms folded across her chest and a very forbidding look on her face.

Lucas paused at the door. "I'm really—"

"Don't you dare."

"Right." He closed it gently behind him and turned to find Varric leaning against the wall with a teacup in his hand.

"Oh, if I could paint a portrait of your face right now."

"Nothing happened."

"You think I don't know that? Come now, Hawke, I know what doesn't happen around here, too."

"I really don't think I like you," Lucas muttered. Whatever was in that cup smelled delicious. He was ravenously hungry, and thirsty, too.

Varric handed him the cup. "For you. If you'll get that frown off your face, I'll take you to breakfast, too."

"You're buying?" Lucas practically choked on the sweet, fragrant tea. "All right, tell me the truth, did Isabela poison me in my sleep? How long have I got?"

The dwarf was snickering as he led the way down the stairs. "I'm not buying, the Arishok is. We've been instructed to come into his presence this morning and explain what happened with the gas. I imagine you've got a few things to say on that topic."

"Do I ever." Lucas put the teacup down on the bar as they went by. "I'd like to be sure Fenris is along, so we know what they're saying behind our backs."

"Aveline's taking care of that. Of course, since the Arishok found out the elf can speak Qunari, there's been precious little talking where we can hear. Still, the elf's got sharp ears."

Lucas paused briefly in the doorway, looking back. Surely he could have explained himself better than … well, better than not at all. He seemed to put his foot in it every time he was around Isabela. And now he'd have to go talk to the Arishok, with Aveline, apparently, and try to keep his romantic life out of his thoughts for a while. You'd think, given how badly that was going, that trying to forget it would be a more pleasant prospect.

Breakfast had, of course, been a lie. Lucas had suspected as much from the start. But he wished he'd argued more—standing in front of the Arishok with his stomach growling made it hard to feel particularly daunting.

"It appears," the Arishok said heavily, "that I was wrong about our thief."

Well, that was a bracing way to begin. Suddenly Lucas felt much less hungry and much more vindicated. "New sensation for you? No doubt you'll get used to it," he said, ignoring Aveline's shocked indrawn breath and Fenris's silent but eloquent disapproval of his irreverence.

The Arishok merely looked at him. "People are saying that we were careless with our trap."

"Since when do you care what people say?" It was honest curiosity this time—Lucas couldn't imagine the Arishok being interested in gossip.

"It is not my duty to cause undue trouble. This elf, however, felt that it was her duty to do so. She would have ensured that people died, no matter what choices had been made." He shook his heavy head ponderously. "I admire conviction, and there are some of you who have focus … but so many of your kind are committed to weakness."

"You don't seem particularly concerned by this elf's claim that she has supporters."

"Our enemies strike from shadow because they cannot stand before us. This is not a revelation." His tone dripped with contempt. "It doesn't matter. We are here to satisfy a duty to the Qun, and we will do so, no matter who stands in our way."

"It's taking long enough," Lucas remarked.

"It will take as long as it takes. No ship is coming." He added, almost as if to himself, "I am stuck here."

"You could have built a ship by now, you know. We would have helped you. I bet, if you asked, the entire city of Kirkwall would have a big boat-building in your honor. We could make it a party."

The Arishok glared at him. "It is not about a ship. Filth stole from us. Not now, not the saar-qamek, but some time ago." He stood up, his eyes flashing. "We are all denied Par Vollen until I recover what was lost under my command. That is why I do not simply walk from this pustule of a city!" He was thundering at them now, staring down from the top of the stairs with his fists clenched. Lucas was hard put not to take a step back—the leashed power of the giant before him was awesome, and he understood fully in that moment what he had not before, that Kirkwall could not stand under a full-on Qunari attack. Many of the Viscount's decisions were clear to him suddenly. The Arishok shouted, "Fixing your mess is not the demand of the Qun, and you should all be grateful!" There was silence for a moment when he had finished speaking. The heads of the two Qunari flanking the Arishok turned, just slightly, toward him, and he took a step back, collecting himself with obvious difficulty. Turning his back on Hawke and the others, the Arishok walked ponderously back to his chair and sank into it. "Thank you for your service, human," he said in a dull, dead voice. "Leave."

Lucas motioned to the others, and they did so with alacrity.

"Interesting," Varric said when they were halfway up the stairs from the docks. "Even the Arishok isn't entirely in charge here."

"No, that much seems evident." Aveline frowned. "I wonder if we could use that."

"Unlikely. The Qunari are strongly resistant to outside influences," Fenris said.

"I was afraid you might say that. It was just a thought." Aveline turned to Lucas. "You're coming to inform the Viscount of what the Arishok said, I hope?"

"Oh, yes. Looking forward to it."

Varric snorted. "Better you than me. I'll be drinking later, if you're not avoiding the Hanged Man altogether." The dwarf strolled off, whistling.

"Finally come to your senses about that place?" Aveline asked.

"Something like that." Lucas was not about to share the story of his experience with Isabela—or lack of same. Aveline would not be amused by the idea of him with Isabela, and he was still too unsure of his feelings for both women to start a conversation that might require his defining those feelings.

They walked quietly up the stairs to Hightown. Fenris had disappeared at some point, ducking away to go do whatever it was he did in the daylight. Buy the wine he drank at night, possibly. Lucas wasn't overly concerned—Fenris always seemed to show up where he was needed, even if Lucas never knew where to find him during the day. It was nice to have one team member who didn't require being looked after and worried over constantly.

"Hawke," Aveline said abruptly.

"What is it?"

She glanced at him, her face pink under her freckles. "Nothing."

"You sure?"

"Absolutely." She looked ahead. "Ah, there's the Keep. Good. Let's see what the Viscount has to say."

Nothing at all, as it turned out. Lucas and Aveline waited outside Seneschal Bran's office while he finished up a meeting. He ignored them completely, shaking hands with an Orlesian noble and bowing obsequiously as the long-winded fellow took his leave. Finally Bran turned to Aveline. "Yes, Guard Captain?"

"We have urgent news for the Viscount. We must see him at once."

"Unfortunately, that won't be possible today. The Viscount is otherwise occupied."

"You don't understand." Aveline was holding onto her temper with both hands, and Lucas was impressed with how well she was managing. Tact had never been her strong suit, but she had learned a great deal of it in the course of her new position. "This is to do with the Qunari, and the gas that was released in Lowtown. A number of people were killed."

"Lowtown?" Bran dismissed the entire area with a sniff. "I imagine the claims of mortality were exaggerated."

Lucas snapped, "I can assure you, they were not."

"You were there, Serah Hawke? Why am I not surprised?"

"I stopped it from getting any worse. If we hadn't been there, the gas would have spread and many more would have died." Lucas disliked bragging about his prowess, or really bringing any attention at all to the work he did, but in this case it felt necessary.

"Indeed." The Seneschal pursed his lips in thought. "Come back tomorrow, just after lunchtime. The Viscount can see you then."

"Tomorrow? The Arishok made threats. He changed his whole story! The Viscount needs to know about this before tomorrow lunch!"

Lucas's agitation made no impression on the Seneschal, who merely lifted his eyebrows and waited patiently for Lucas and Aveline to leave his office.

"That supercilious son-of-a-bitch!" Lucas said as they walked down the stairs together. "Who does he think he is?"

"The real power," Aveline said, shrugging her shoulders. "He has the Viscount's ear. And other parts, if the rumors are true."

"Ew. I didn't need that image in my head."

"I know someone who claims to have walked in on—Oh, Saemus, I didn't see you there."

The Viscount's son was standing in front of them. His hands, white-knuckled, gripped the railings as he looked down on the entry hall of the Keep. "Captain Aveline. And Serah Hawke. I understand you had an eventful day yesterday."

"That's one word for it."

"The Qunari couldn't have known that gas was lethal. They aren't like that."

Lucas shook his head. "Take the blinders off, son. Qunari may not be all bad, but they don't care about us at all. They were perfectly happy to let their gas kill as many of us as was necessary to get the point."

"The point being to leave them alone."

"Yes, fair enough, the point being to leave them alone! But we didn't ask them to come to Kirkwall, and we aren't asking them to stay." Lucas thought it was a good argument, and was rocked back on his heels when Saemus fixed him with a pair of very blue eyes.

"Perhaps, Serah Hawke, the same could be said of you." He turned on his heel and disappeared into the depths of the Keep.

"He has a point," Lucas said in the silence that followed.

"Not a good one." Aveline wasn't watching the Viscount's son; she was staring at the floor, studying the tips of her boots. "Hawke?"

"What's up?"

"I need to talk to you. Can you come to the barracks for a few minutes?"

"I don't see why not." His heartbeat had sped up. Was this the kind of talk he hoped it would be? Her discomfort said it was possible she was about to confess that she returned his … interest in her. Lucas followed her into the barracks, nodding at the few guards he recognized. Aveline ushered him into her office and looked around to see who was outside it before shutting the door. "Why all the secrecy?" he asked as she sank into the chair behind her desk.

"I have a favor to ask. A favor I can only entrust to you. It's … a small matter, but I worry."

"A favor? What kind of favor?" He leaned forward, his hair falling over one eye. "Will I like it?"

Aveline frowned. "I … don't know?" She reached into her desk drawer, withdrawing a package efficiently wrapped in brown paper. "Do you know Guardsman Donnic?"

"That's the one we saved from ambush a few years back, right? The tall one?" _Too tall_, Lucas thought, disgruntled that this meeting wasn't about what he had hoped it would be.

"Right. Take this package to him, wait while he opens it, and report his reaction to me. He isn't to know it came from me."

"But why—"

"No questions." Aveline's face was set and firm.

"You need me for something as simple as this?"

"Who can I trust besides you? I know many people in Kirkwall, but you—you're more than a friend to me." Her green eyes were shining as she looked at him across the desk.

Lucas's pulse leaped.

"You're like a brother," Aveline went on.

It fell again, his heart thudding almost painfully in his chest. "It … must be something important," he said, his voice hoarse in his ears.

"That's none of your business." Her voice was clipped and short now, as if she was embarrassed to have been caught being emotional.

"How very Qunari of you." Lucas stood up, holding his hand out for the package.

Aveline shook her head. "I already regret this. I'm not about to make it worse by admit—exposing unnecessary facts."

"Fine," Lucas snapped. He took the package from her, noticing that she had trouble letting it go, and that her eyes were soft and vulnerable in a way he'd never seen them. Relenting, he patted her hand. "Don't worry, Aveline. I'm here to help, whenever and whatever you need."

"That's sweet, Hawke." Her eyes darted to the door. "Now, hurry back with his reaction."

"Yes, serah." Grumbling under his breath, Lucas let himself out of Aveline's office. "Have you seen Donnic?" he asked the first guard he saw, a feisty blonde named Brennan.

"In the dining hall."

"Thanks."

"Anytime," she said, in a voice that made it clear she wasn't just talking about directions.

What is it with women? Lucas wondered as he made his way to the dining hall. The one he thought he wanted thought of him as a brother, and the ones who wanted him were either scary or confusing … or both. He should have stuck to prostitutes, he thought sourly. Sabina wasn't exactly imaginative, but she was affordable, clean, and got the job done.

Guardsman Donnic was just standing up as Lucas entered the dining hall. "Serah Hawke," he said with recognition, even though not with any notable pleasure.

"Donnic. I have something for you."

"Do you?" Donnic reached for the package, wrestling Aveline's tightly tied knots apart with some effort, and took off the brown paper. They both stood for a long moment, staring at the object in his hands. "It's a copper relief of what looks like marigolds," Donnic said flatly. He squinted at the bottom of the frame. "Yes, it helpfully says so. Marigolds. Is there a significance to this that I'm missing?"

Lucas threw up his hands. "You've got me there."

"Well. Thank you, then," Donnic said, transferring his frown from the 'artwork' to Lucas.

"Oh, anytime." Lucas turned around, heading back to Aveline's office, shutting the door firmly behind him.

She was sitting bolt upright in her chair, staring at the door, and she blinked when he came in. "You're back. 'Course you are; you're efficient. You get things done, good or ill."

"Efficient. That's me, all right."

"Well?"

"Yeah, he was underwhelmed."

"Didn't he understand what I meant?"

"He didn't know it was from you, remember. And I did know it was from you, and I don't understand what you meant."

Aveline jumped up, pacing the floor. "It should have been obvious. Metal is strong, copper ages well, flowers are soft," she muttered to herself. "I've gone about this the wrong way, I can see that now." She looked up at Lucas. "Don't talk to him again."

"No problem."

Diving behind her desk, Aveline came up with a piece of parchment, which she held out to Lucas. "Here—this is next week's roster. Go post it, and then wait for Donnic to see it. Then come back and tell me his reaction. I need to know exactly what he says—that's key."

Lucas grinned at her. "Keep giving me all this make-work stuff to do and I'll get the impression you just like having me around."

"Just do it, will you, Hawke, and don't yank my chain."

"Yes, Captain." He saluted, leaving the room with the roster.

"Hey, Hawke, you getting a job as the Captain's lackey?" Brennan asked. She was leaning against the wall with her arms folded, almost as if she'd been waiting for him to come out.

"Apparently I am today. Hopefully not tomorrow," he muttered under his breath, tacking the roster up on the wall.

"Donnic, come look at this," Brennan called. "New roster's up."

He came out of one of the dormitories, frowning at Lucas before peering at the roster. "Hightown? What's this nonsense?"

Brennan pushed off the wall, coming to stand next to Donnic. She puckered her lips and made kissy noises. "Someone's got the cushy job, don't they? Wonder why …"

"There must be some mistake. I'm not working Hightown. No one's shoving me off on the sidelines." Donnic pushed past Lucas, stalking out of the barracks.

"She missed that time," Brennan said.

"What do you mean, missed?"

"The Captain. She misjudged Donnic right and proper if she thought he'd fall all over himself kissing her bits because she gave him Hightown."

Lucas stared at the blonde guardswoman and she returned the look with one that said she thought he was a complete idiot. And then the light dawned, and he groaned. He was a complete idiot. "I'll tell her."

"You do that." Brennan smirked. "And next time you're in the barracks, stop by and see a girl. I'll have better things for you to do than hang a roster."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Aveline was waiting, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet with impatience. "What did he say?"

"He hated it."

"What? Hightown's a reward!"

"He took it like a punishment. The man likes his job, Aveline."

She looked crestfallen. "All right … I can fix this. I need three goats and a sheaf of wheat. You'll take them to his mother."

"So this ridiculous investigation was—"

"A ridiculous courtship." She sank down in her chair, burying her face in her hands and groaning.

"Aveline, that's not the way to get into a man's pants, much less his heart."

"I've been focused on being captain so long, it's all I know."

"You're having trouble speaking your mind?" Lucas asked incredulously.

"I just …" She looked up at him, tears shimmering in her green eyes. "I want him to know that I feel … if something happened to him …"

Lucas shivered at her tone. He thought he understood. If something happened to Isabela, he—He caught himself. Isabela? Why should she come to mind right now? He didn't have any special feelings for Isabela. He'd thought he had them for Aveline, but clearly that had been a mistake. He pushed the thoughts aside to focus on Aveline's very real, very present trouble. "You need to go somewhere that you aren't captain and guardsman. Like the Hanged Man."

"Like it's that easy."

"If it isn't, he's a fool," Lucas said. He crossed to her, putting his hand on her shoulder. "Trust me."

"Oh, where have I heard that before?" she muttered, but she nodded.

"All right. Tomorrow night, Hanged Man. And don't wear that," he admonished.

"Right." Aveline sounded doubtful, so he gave her his best encouraging smile before shutting the door behind him.

He found Donnic near the entrance to the Keep, complaining about his new orders to Guardsman Jalen. "Donnic, I've got a job for you, if you're interested."

"I don't think the Captain would like it—"

"No, she said it was all right. Come by the Hanged Man tomorrow after supper and I'll tell you all about it."

"All … right."

Lucas let himself out of the Keep, glad that it was only a short distance across Hightown to his own home. It seemed as though it had been a very long day. Or a few of them.

And apparently this one wasn't quite over. As he walked into his house, his eyes met those of Isabela, as she perched on his stair rail, carving something into the soft wood.


	14. The Pirate's Pleasure

_So ... Isabela's in the mansion. Will it surprise any of you if I say this chapter is NSFW? ;) Thanks for reading! Special thanks to Oleander's One for her thoughtful and skilled betaing!_

* * *

Lucas stopped short, staring at the pirate on his stair rail. "Isabela?" he asked stupidly, as though it could possibly have been someone else.

She stabbed her knife into the railing, leaving it standing straight up, and unhurriedly swung one long, brown leg over and jumped down. "You owe me, big boy. For what didn't happen last night."

"I said I was sorry about that."

"Actually, you didn't."

"Well … maybe not, but only because you wouldn't let me."

"So don't." Isabela walked toward him, stopping just a few steps away. "I don't want your sorrys."

"What—" His throat felt tight. He cleared it and tried again. "What do you want?"

"I think you know."

"Isabela …" He was tempted, no question about that. What man wouldn't be? She was beautiful, and exotic, and deadly, and witty, and intelligent, and experienced … But what would it mean? Lucas was sure he wasn't ready for sleeping with Isabela to mean something—but he was equally sure that it wouldn't mean nothing, either. The distance she'd left between them, the fact that she was waiting for him to decide, said this wasn't just a casual tumble to her, although she was trying to pretend it was.

"What?" she snapped.

He wanted to ask why, but sensed that the question wouldn't go over well. The memory of last night's kisses came to him, sending warmth flowing through his body. He wanted her—he could admit that now—and when was the last time he'd done something he wanted to do? With sudden decision, he grinned. "Will you respect me in the morning?"

Her eyes widened with surprise, and there was the briefest hesitation, as though she hadn't expected him to agree, before she returned the grin. "That," she said, "will depend on your capabilities."

"Oh, I'm being judged, am I?" Their eyes were locked on each other's now, excitement passing between them with the badinage. "What if it's you who can't keep up?"

She laughed. "That'll be the day."

There was a pause, as time hung suspended between them. Then Lucas stepped toward Isabela just as she was leaping for him.

He half-expected her nose to smash into his jaw—after all, nothing between them had gone quite right yet. But this did; her arms wound around his neck, her legs wrapped around his waist, and her mouth met his, all in what seemed like the same motion. Lucas hoisted her up a little higher for easier carrying, and, kissing her all the while, made his way up the stairs toward his bedroom. The last thing he needed was his mother coming out of her room and finding him kissing Isabela.

When the door of his room shut behind him, he was somewhat surprised. He didn't quite know how he had managed to navigate the stairs without falling. But with Isabela's tongue dancing in his mouth, he didn't care, either.

Still gripping him with her strong legs, she straightened, breaking the kiss, and drew two daggers from the scabbards at her back. She flung them across the room and drew two more from somewhere in her tunic. Those, also, ended up decorating his walls, one slicing through his bedcurtain on the way. Isabela dug three more knives out of her boots and tossed those, too.

"You know," Lucas said breathlessly, "you could have just laid them on the table."

"Where's the fun in that?" Her hands threaded through his hair, her mouth coming down on his again. She was right, of course—watching her throw those knives around his room had been surprisingly erotic.

He maneuvered them to the bed, turning around so that he landed with his back on the mattress, Isabela straddling him.

She wiggled, and Lucas groaned. "Mmm, I like a man who doesn't mind me being on top."

"I don't mind at all. I do, however, mind your top being on. Let's do something about that, shall we?" Lucas sat up, fumbling at the laces that held her tunic closed, wanting to see her breasts, wanting them to spill into his waiting hands.

"Allow me." She shifted a bit, tugging at the bottom of the tunic, and yanked it off over her head, throwing it as recklessly as she had the knives. Her breastband followed, leaving her naked except for her kerchief, her gold jewelry, her boots, and the tiniest little scrap of black fabric masquerading as smallclothes.

Lucas stared at her for a long moment. Her body was as beautiful as he had imagined. More so, if he were being honest. He had expected long hours in the sun would have damaged her skin, and that sheer weight would have pulled her breasts out of shape—but they were round, and full, and utterly perfect. He buried his face between them, rubbing his cheek against her smooth skin.

Isabela shifted in his lap, her fingers closing on his shoulders as she leaned back to give him better access.

Lucas took a soft nipple into his mouth, suckling on it as it hardened against his tongue. Isabela sighed in pleasure, the sound arousing him more than he would have imagined. He turned his attention to her other breast, licking and nibbling and sucking, just as he had wanted to do the other night at the party. Just the thought of that dress and the tight confinement her beautiful breasts had been in while she wore it made him want to kiss them more. So he did.

Isabela was vocal in her enjoyment of his attentions, gasps and moans and cries pouring from her mouth as her hands shifted on his shoulders, no doubt causing permanent wrinkles in his shirt. Not that he cared, but it was getting rather warm in the room to be fully clothed.

Pulling back from her, he started on the buttons of his shirt.

"Let me." Isabela grasped his shirtfront with both hands, yanking it apart. Buttons flew everywhere. Lucas had a sudden image of Sandal coming in to clean up tomorrow, finding buttons and pieces of Isabela's clothing and knives everywhere, and nearly choked trying not to laugh.

Then laughter was the furthest thing on his mind, because Isabela's tongue and teeth were mirroring everything he had just done to her breasts. He'd never thought of his own nipples as being particularly sensitive, but under her ministrations the slightest touch made him throb, his pants growing tighter and more uncomfortable by the moment.

"Isabela!"

"Mmm," was her response. She pushed him backward, her tongue continuing down his chest and across his stomach. He could feel the soft brush of her breasts against him even through his pants, and couldn't control the need to thrust up against her. "Look at you, big boy. Getting sleepy?"

"H-hardly," he gasped, barely able to get the word out, because her hand had replaced her breasts, stroking slowly up and down. There was really nothing he wanted in the world more than to get these damned pants off. "Please, Isabela!" He didn't care if she ripped those in pieces, too, if it meant he could be free of the restrictive fabric.

"Well, since you ask so nicely." Then her clever fingers were unfastening the buttons on his pants, brushing maddeningly against him in a way that was far from accidental. His hips were practically dancing in the air trying to get closer to those tantalizing little touches. At last, the pants were on the floor somewhere, his smallclothes with them.

"Maker!" He drew her against him, needing to kiss her again. Isabela rubbed against him, the teensy little smallclothes, little more than a string, it appeared, hardly a barrier between their bodies. "Take them off," he gasped between kisses.

She shifted just enough to slide the little piece of fabric off. Any other woman would have looked awkward, but Isabela looked … like a goddess, he thought hazily.

And then there was no more thought, because she came down directly on him, smooth and hot and wet. So wet that Lucas slid inside her as though they had been made to fit each other.

She rose and fell above him, her breasts bouncing, her rhythm increasing slowly as they both grew damp with sweat. Lucas's eyelids felt heavy, but he forced them open so he could watch her. Isabela had her head thrown back, her mouth open, and cries of pleasure escaped her lips as her movements sped up.

"H—H—Hawke!" she cried out at last, grinding down on him with a final hard thrust.

Caught up in watching her, Lucas was startled by his own climax, groaning as it hit. He pushed up against her, holding her hips tightly to keep her with him as he finished.

He lay back, spent and panting, expecting her to fall next to him, but she climbed off of him and then off the bed entirely.

"Isabela?"

"Go to sleep, Hawke."

"I don't want to go to sleep," he said, not amused by the joke. "I want to lie here and enjoy what just happened with a beautiful woman in my arms."

"I'll go get you one."

He sat up, frowning at her. "Something I said?"

"I'm not one for the touchy-feely when the touchy-feely is over."

"Wham, bam, take it on the lam?"

"You got it, big boy." She fastened her breastband, then bent to pick up her tunic.

"I won't bite."

"Too bad." She winked at him, straightening the tunic and starting to relace it.

"Isabela, why don't you stay a little?"

She groaned. "You're not one of those types who takes a tumble and then starts spouting relationship talk, are you?"

"No, but I might just be one of those types who takes a breather and is ready to go again." He couldn't have said—and wouldn't have imagined an hour ago—what was so important about keeping her from rushing out of the room, but something was.

Isabela stopped dressing, looking up at him. "What makes you think I want another go?"

That stung. Lucas fought back his initial reaction, which was to voice his injured feelings loudly, because something told him that was what she wanted. Instead he folded his arms above his head and leaned back against the pillows. "Suit yourself," he said with false casualness.

He'd really thought it was too transparent to work, but she paused, looking at him thoughtfully. "Well, you'd be passable with a few pointers, and who better to give them to you than me? I won't sleep here, though, so don't even think about it."

"Really. You don't think this bed is more comfortable than your bed at the Hanged Man? My mother spared no expense picking out the mattress and sheets."

"Your mother picked those out?" Isabela shook her head, her eyes twinkling. "That's pathetic."

"It is," he acknowledged. "You could pick out new ones, if you want."

"Whoa, there, stud! Come on back to the stable," she said. "I'm not your girlfriend; I'm not moving in; I don't even like you that much."

He clenched his teeth. She did know how to get under a man's skin. "And I don't like these sheets that much, is all I was saying. And wouldn't I be less pathetic if a hot pirate had picked out my sheets? Think of how that would sound to the next girl I bring home."

Ah-ha. Lucas wasn't a particularly vain man, but there was something quite arousing in the flash of anger in her eyes when he suggested sleeping with another woman. She covered it quickly, but not quickly enough.

She ripped the tunic back off over her head, dropping the breastband on top of it. He considered asking her to take off her boots, as she had last night, but something told him they were more than boots to her, and she would only take them off if she wanted to. Briefly he mourned the lost opportunity of last night, the softer, more vulnerable Isabela she had been willing to be in front of him … but there would be time to see that side of her again, he hoped.

Lucas wasn't sure when she had gone from someone he wasn't sure he was comfortable having a tumble with to someone he wanted to see a lot more of, but she had. And as she climbed back into the bed and brought her mouth to his, he couldn't regret it for a moment.


End file.
